Never Tear Us Apart (Never Tear Us Apart #1)

by Monica Murphy

  Fine by me, I told her, and she sounded relieved.

  That she didn’t fully trust me pleased me only because I want her safe. She shouldn’t easily place her trust in me—in anyone. She’s been through so much and she has every right to be wary, especially now that she’s told her story to the entire nation. I have no idea how many people watched, but I bet it was a ton. Everyone’s fascinated with a story like Katie’s.

  I’m fascinated with the woman, not just her story. Not just her path. I was there. I lived it. Was a part of it and contributed to her survival. Yet a part of me—almost the entire whole of me—wants to forget that. I crave the past connection with Katie but I don’t want to remember the details. The whys and the wherefores.

  It’s like I’m starting fresh and new with her, though I have an advantage. I know all about her, but she doesn’t know me. Well, she doesn’t know the new me. Ethan.

  Even the old me, she didn’t know that well. She probably wouldn’t have liked him much anyway. I hadn’t been the best kid, given the terrible example I had growing up. No mom, a dad who used yet was useless. When I was little I could never play Little League baseball or peewee football, and I wanted to. Desperately. But that shit cost money and we didn’t have it, so my father always denied me. I’d go to the local park on Saturday mornings and watch. Watch the kids my age, the kids I went to school with, play soccer and football and baseball. Envy ate at me, made me angry and frustrated, but no one cared.

  No one.

  I practiced, though. Whenever I could. Played sports during elementary school during P.E. and recess. Kicked balls around, threw them, made baskets, idolized my third-grade teacher, Mr. Elliott, who let us play flag football pretty much every day, rain or shine. God, I loved flag football. At school no one bothered me, no one picked on me or told me I was worthless. All that happened at home.

  School was my refuge.

  I threw myself into sports in middle and high school as an escape. I was so damn thankful when I could start playing on teams and didn’t have to pay for any of it. I put in the time and the work, kept up my grades, and reveled in my athletic success. I wanted something to lose myself in, wanted to hear someone tell me good job, because I sure as hell never got that from my father.

  And I got that. All of my coaches loved me. I played every sport they let me, minus wrestling. Never could get into that. Reminded me too much of home. Someone trying to pin me down, encourage me to fight, to break free.

  Hated it.

  I might have run away from my foster home when I was seventeen, but I remained in school because hell, I was on the baseball team and we were going to the division championships. I couldn’t abandon them. I wanted that title. I had scouts sniffing around me for a while, but my playing abilities combined with my grades were never quite enough. I wanted to finish out my senior year, though. By that time no one was allowed to call me Will anymore and I was going by Ethan. No one questioned the change, not even my teachers. It was as if they knew.

  They probably did.

  I stayed with my friend Daniel, crashed on the floor of his bedroom and thanked his hot mom over and over again, though she always told me it was no bother. She’d blush furiously, like she knew I thought she was hot and she was trying to discourage a crush.

  Never did anything with Daniel’s mom, though I wanted to. Back then I was ashamed of any sexual feelings, afraid I would turn into some sick asshole like my dad. That scared me. I think I fixated on Daniel’s mom because I didn’t have one and she was so nice to me. I just . . .

  Wanted someone to love me. Accept me.

  If I were honest with myself, I’d know I was seeking something more with Katie than just reassuring myself that she’s safe. I want to watch over her, and it’s not just because I feel it’s my duty.

  I want her. As wrong and twisted as I know it is, I can’t deny it. I want her, all for myself. When I think like that, in such possessive terms, it scares the shit out of me. Makes me feel like I’m turning into my father.

  The last fucking thing I want to happen. I know I’m nothing like him. I get angry, yeah, but I don’t have rage issues. I don’t want to brutalize women or exert my power over them. And I definitely don’t want to do that to little girls.

  Dear old dad is a sick fuck. I’m just a warped individual with an unhealthy fixation on a girl from my past.

  Regret and guilt course through me and I shove both feelings aside. One dinner, I tell myself, making yet another empty promise I will no doubt break. One dinner won’t hurt anyone or anything. I’m playing with fire, I know. The more I get to know her, the more I talk to her, text her, fucking think about her, the more I want her. There’s no use denying it. I may as well embrace the want.

  No matter how much it might get me in trouble in the long run. If she figures me out . . .

  I’m fucking done for.

  I’m here now, waiting for her in the location of her choosing. Not in the town where she lives, which surprised me but again, made me proud. She’s being cautious, not allowing me a deep glimpse into her personal life, though I’d give anything to know what she’s thinking, specifically about me.

  Katie keeps me at arm’s length while we get to know each other and I understand why. It’s the right thing for her to do. She’s being safe.

  Safe is good.

  And I’m being reckless. Insane. Fucking around with something—someone—I shouldn’t. Though I know it’s wrong, it’s as though I can’t stop. I want her, all for my own. I want her to belong to me.

  Have you ever experienced something that you know is so fucking wrong it only ever feels . . . right? That’s what’s happening right now. Talking with her on the phone—though the conversation had been brief—I’d almost fallen apart at just hearing her voice. The voice of my dreams, the same sweet voice that haunts me in my nightmares.

  I hold on to that voice like a lifeline. There are so many things I want to hear her say to me, whisper to me in my ear. Forbidden, dirty things she’d probably find terrible. She’s not that kind of girl. She’s good and sweet and pure, a girl who’s been damaged by a man who violated her and tossed her aside like yesterday’s trash.

  The sick cycle of what I’ve become isn’t lost on me. I want what I can’t have. I have no right to do this, to think like this, to act on this. I followed her like a stalker. Found her address after much investigating and skulked around like the asshole I’ve become. My behavior reminds me of . . .

  My father.

  Fuck.

  I run a hand through my hair, pushing it off my forehead as I wait. I dressed up for her and I dress up for no one. I don’t have to considering I work from home, safe at my desk, behind my laptop, on various website development projects. I took a few courses at the local community college and somehow fell into the profession. I don’t make a ton of money, but it’s enough. Plus I had money left over from the sale of our house. The new owner tore it down, but the area became a hot commodity considering its close location to the ocean.

  So yeah, I’m not wealthy, but I’m not struggling. And I can dress up on occasion to impress a girl, though I haven’t done that in a long, long time.

  I’m wearing a pair of black pants and a white button-down shirt untucked, the sleeves rolled up to my elbows since it’s so damn hot. The air is close, unusual for this time of year, and sweat dampens my forehead as I pace in front of the restaurant, ignoring the others who are waiting to get a table. They’re all couples. Younger, older, they’re chatting and laughing, sounding like they’re having a good time, and I feel like I’m about to be dumped. Maybe Katie chickened out. Had second thoughts. Worried I might be something I’m not.

  She’d be right.

  Glancing at my phone, I check the time. She’s almost ten minutes late. Is this normal? I don’t know considering I haven’t closely studied her habits. I hadn’t followed her around long enough to know. Since we’d started talking, I’d stopped following her, lingering in her neighborhood. I
cut it all out. It felt like a violation and she’s been violated enough through the years. Plus, she could recognize me. Bad enough that I have to live with what I’m doing to her. I don’t need to add fuel to the fire.

  I start pacing again and glance toward the parking lot when I spot her. The relief I experience at seeing her walk toward me is almost overwhelming. The lust I feel at knowing she’s come to meet me is almost as strong.

  As she draws closer, I notice the faint smile curving her lips. Lips that are pink and full and welcoming. Her hair is down, falling about her shoulders in casual waves, and she’s wearing a dress. A dress that wouldn’t be considered sexy or revealing, that covers her almost to the point of being modest, but the dark pink fabric seems to cling almost lovingly to her slight curves. The slope of her shoulders, her small, round breasts, the dip of her waist and flare of her hips.

  I’m sweating, and not just from the heat. I’m sweating because the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen is approaching me, offering me a shy wave, and I wave back, wanting to shout in triumph that I’ve got her.

  I’ve got her.

  The restaurant is nice, the food amazing, and the company wonderful. Our conversation was stilted at first and I blame myself. I’m not used to this sort of thing. Spending time with someone new, learning about him, being willing to allow him to try and learn about me, it’s difficult.

  I’d texted Brenna before I left, telling her where I was going but not telling her it was a date. It feels too new, too fresh, and I didn’t want to share it. What if this dinner ended in disaster? As in, he hates me and never wants to see me again. I’d be too embarrassed to admit it, even to my sister.

  Brenna swore she and Mom took the Find My Phone app off my cell, but who knows if they’re telling the truth or not. I’d rather be somewhat honest with them and let them know where I’m going than receive a hysterical call from Mom in the middle of my date.

  Who are you going with? Brenna had texted back when I told her my evening plans.

  A friend.

  I’d kept it simple, chewing on my lower lip, waiting for her to dig. She likes to do that. She knows I don’t have many friends, but she’s been wrapped up in her own life lately. I think she’s having trouble with her boyfriend, though she’d never, ever admit it. She prefers to pretend everything’s perfect between them. They have the ideal relationship, whereas I’m the damaged one who will most likely never give Mom grand-kids.

  Such a depressing thought, more so because we all know it’s true.

  Have fun! had been her reply minutes later. I could tell she was distracted. She only ever uses exclamation points when she’s distracted.

  “Do you have any siblings?” I ask, more like blurt out of nowhere. We’re halfway through our meal, Ethan and I, and the conversation has lulled since we started to eat.

  He has his fork in his mouth when I ask my question and he sets it down on the edge of his plate, chewing thoughtfully and swallowing before he answers. “No, I don’t.” He pauses, those rich brown eyes studying me, seeming to sparkle behind his glasses. I’ve never found a man who wore glasses attractive before, but when had I ever found any man attractive before? “What about you?”

  “I have an older sister.” It’s my turn to pause as I consider whether I should say her name. “Brenna.”

  “How many years?”

  I frown. “Excuse me?”

  He takes a sip of water before he repeats himself. “How many years? Between the two of you?”

  “Oh, about two and a half.” I smile as I remember our adolescent hatred for one another. That was before. My life has been divided into two parts, the first one happy, the second one not so much. I’m hoping to turn that around. “She’s my best friend.”

  “Whether she likes it or not?” He’s teasing me, and I laugh.

  “Back when we were younger, our parents used to say that. Tell us that we needed to get along because when we were older and everyone else in the family was gone, we’d only have each other. We never believed that would happen, that we would actually want to count on each other. We used to fight all the time and it drove our parents crazy.”

  “And now you don’t.”

  I shrug. “She really is my best friend. I tell her almost everything.”

  “Did you tell her about me?”

  Would the truth hurt him? “No,” I admit, my voice soft. “I didn’t want to explain exactly how we met.”

  “You mean the near purse snatching.”

  I nod. “I didn’t want to worry her. She would . . . freak out.”

  “Does she do that, your older sister? Worry about you a lot?”

  The truth is there, sitting right on the tip of my tongue, and I’m tempted to let it all spill out. But I can’t admit everything. Not yet. He still doesn’t know my last name. I don’t know his. I want to keep this part of myself quiet for now. Maybe for as long as I spend time with Ethan, because I know this won’t last. It can’t. He’ll find out what happened and bail. He should. I’m not worth sticking around for. My problems are such a heavy burden, I don’t expect anyone to want to deal with them.

  But it’s liberating, spending time with someone who doesn’t know about all your baggage. There’s a freedom in just being me versus the girl who was kidnapped, held captive for days, and raped repeatedly. No pitying looks, no hesitation. I’m not easy to be around.

  It’s not easy being me. This is why I’m so reclusive, why I have such a hard time pushing myself out of my shell. All the therapy in the world won’t really help. What’s done is done. I get it. Having a father who refused to talk about what happened to me didn’t help matters. We were a solid family who became dysfunctional in a matter of days. Who remained dysfunctional for years, until my father died. We’re still not perfect.

  Most of the time, I blame myself for our falling apart, for losing that sense of normalcy I so needed when I came back. I didn’t ask to be kidnapped, but I felt responsible just the same.

  Easier to blame yourself and start down a path of intense self-loathing for the rest of your life.

  “Sometimes,” I finally say nonchalantly. “Just like I sometimes worry about her. It’s what sisters do. We watch out for each other.”

  “It must be nice, to have someone you can always count on.” His voice sounds almost wistful. “No matter what, she’ll be there for you.”

  “It is nice.” I want to ask him if he has someone to count on but I don’t. It feels too personal, too invasive, and I don’t know him that well yet.

  “So do you work? Have a job you love? Or are you in school? What do you do with your days?” He pushes his plate away slightly, indicating that he’s finished, I guess, and my appetite flees, too, at the tone of his questions. We’ve only made general small talk, nothing too personal, revealing nothing too intimate. Just the way I prefer it.

  But now he wants more details and I guess that’s natural. I shouldn’t throw up a wall, but it’s such a natural defense mechanism for me, I almost can’t help it. “I’m a full-time college student.” All online, so I don’t have to interact with anyone else in person.

  He sends me a look, one I can’t quite read, but it’s almost as if he doubts me. “What’s your major?”

  “Graphic design.” When I was little I loved to create things. Draw and make crafts with lots of glitter and glue and paint. Create scrapbooks with all of Mom’s stuff that she never used. She’d get so mad at me at first but after a while, she gave it all to me since she wasn’t using it. I became the one who made the family vacation scrapbooks every year until the summer I turned thirteen.

  We all know why I stopped. There were no more summer vacations after that year.

  “Really?” His face lights up. “I’m in Web design.”

  “You design websites?”

  He nods. “I went to community and took some courses, met this guy who was trying to start a band and wanted a website for his so-called fans, of which he had maybe, I dunno, ten? He fir
mly believed he was going to be a huge star. I designed his website for him and he loved it, told all of his friends about it. Turned out the guy had a lot of friends. Like, a ton, and they were all starting up businesses and wanted websites and banners for social media. My business sort of grew from there.”

  “That’s amazing,” I breathe, impressed. “You’re so lucky.”

  “I consider myself pretty lucky, that I’m able to make a living out of something I love to do.”

  “So it keeps you busy.”

  His expression turns almost bashful. “I have a two-month wait list.”

  “Wow, you must be very good at your job.” Now I’m definitely impressed.

  “When I find something I enjoy, I throw myself into it wholeheartedly. It’s like I almost become . . . obsessed.” Now he looks guilty. It seems odd. “I probably shouldn’t admit that to you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I sound like a freak.”

  “No, you sound like someone who is passionate.” My cheeks burn at saying the word and I tell myself to get over it.

  “When I was in school, it was sports,” he admits. “I was obsessed with any sport that ended in ball. Baseball, football, basketball. It’s all I wanted to do.”

  That explains his athletic build. “Do you still play any of them?”

  “Nah, not really. I had to quit so I could work. I, uh, I needed the money, so I had to give up all of my after-school activities. Every waking hour that I wasn’t in school, I tried to fill with various jobs.” He presses his lips together, like he didn’t want to just admit that, and I know the feeling.

  “Sounds like you eventually found something else to shine in, then,” I say, wanting to reassure him, make him feel better.

  “Yeah, I guess so.” He takes a drink of his water and I study him, noting the way the light from the candle sitting in the middle of our table casts him in golden shadow. He’s incredibly handsome in a raw-boned, rough-hewn way. All those sharp angles and the solid jawline, offset by that glorious mouth of his. And it really is glorious, soft and full looking. I’ve never really stared at a man’s mouth before. Never really knew one could be so beautiful, almost feminine in the midst of masculine features. Not that he’s feminine, not at all, but I like the softness. It draws me in. Makes me wonder what it might be like to . . .