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

by Monica Murphy

  “Did it also excite you? Seeing his anger? How he wanted to hurt those boys who were trying to hurt you?”

  I bend my head, not wanting to face her. “Yes.” My voice is shaky. “And that’s the last thing I should feel, right? Me? Excited by violence?”

  “There’s no right or wrong in the way you feel, Katherine. If you were excited, no one will judge you. And if you’re angry now because he hasn’t contacted you, I can’t blame you. Your feelings are valid. They belong to you and no one else. Remember that,” she says gently.

  It’s hard to remember when you’ve been filled with shame over what happened to you most of your life.

  “I haven’t been angry in a long time.” I look up, casting my gaze out the window. It’s a gloomy day, cloudy and cold, fitting nicely with my mood. “I’ve been sad and depressed and cautious and overwhelmed. I can’t remember the last time I was mad.”

  “How does it feel?”

  “Liberating.” Our gazes meet and I start to laugh. “Empowering.”

  “That’s good,” she encourages. “There’s nothing wrong with a little anger now and then.”

  “He should be afraid if he tries to call me now. I might go off on him.” Laughter still tinges my voice but it sounds kind of . . . sad. And I doubt I would really go off on him, but it seems like the right thing to say.

  “When was the last time you were happy?”

  My laughter dies and I become quiet. Too quiet. My mind flips through memories as if they were flash cards, one after the other, going back years. “That morning, before it all happened,” I say, tears springing to my eyes. I’ve been on an emotional edge ever since I did that stupid interview. “I was normal then. Nothing bothered me. I had my mom and dad and my best friend with me and they didn’t think I was a freak. They didn’t treat me like damaged goods, like something they should be ashamed of, you know? Well, Brenna acted like she hated me half the time but I didn’t care. I hated her most of the time, too.”

  “Is that really the last memory of when you felt genuinely happy?” Dr. Harris asks.

  “Yes.” I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop the tears, but it’s no use. They flow down my cheeks and I wipe them away. “Any happiness that I experience now is so fleeting it’s hard for me to hold on to. Or it’s always overshadowed by another emotion. You know what I mean? I can be happy, but there’s always something else lingering. Pure happiness feels like a myth.”

  “I find it interesting that two such warring emotions happened within such a short time,” Dr. Harris says. “You were happy and terrified, both in one day.”

  A fact I’ve never realized before. “No matter how much I try to forget that day, I can’t. Both the good and the bad memories cling to me. The joy of being at the park, one of my favorite places to go, there with my best friend, is a good memory. But it becomes tainted by—him. Those days he held me captive, what he did, they’re always front and center in my brain. Telling my story on TV didn’t purge it all away like I hoped.”

  “Did you really believe you’d be able to purge it all that quickly? You only just did the interview, Katherine. It will take time, like everything else. Your quest to finding your true self is a process. We discussed this before.”

  If I could punch my counselor, I so would. I’m sick of everything taking time. I want the instant fix, no matter how unreal my expectations are. I want it.

  I deserve it.

  I keep my phone off during my appointments with Dr. Harris, not that anyone reaches out to me beyond Mom and Brenna. I’ve given up on Ethan—as much as I can. I compartmentalize my emotions; I always have. Dad’s disgusted by me? Put him away in box one. My best friend, Sarah, ditches me at school and won’t be my friend anymore? Shove her into box number two.

  Ethan won’t talk to me? No problem—I’ll just stash him away in box number three and never deal with him again. His loss, I tell myself.

  I’m tired of dealing with emotions triggered by the actions of the people in my life. I did nothing. He’s responsible for this mess. Not me.

  Irritating as it is, hope still lights the tiniest flame in my chest when I turn my phone back on and see the usual junk emails load up my in-box, the class assignments under the email address I use for school.

  Imagine my surprise when I see a text from the very person I’d been secretly hoping for.

  I’m going to have to cancel our meeting this afternoon. Sorry. Hope we can meet tomorrow at the same time instead?

  Okay, clearly that message wasn’t meant for me. Could it be a work thing and he sent it to me by accident? That wouldn’t be good. I should reply. Let him know about his mistake.

  Yet jealousy rears its nasty head. What if that message is for another girl? Not like we had anything close to a commitment. I have no business feeling this way. There could be a long list of women he texts throughout the day.

  Irritated, I shove the phone back into my purse and stalk across the parking lot, heading toward my car. The clouds are low, creating a mist that I can feel dust my skin, dot my hair, and I glance up at the sky, wishing I could do things differently. Do them over and take a different route, though it’s pointless to think like this. There are no take-backs in life.

  My real problem is I’m emotionally exhausted after my appointment with Dr. Harris, which is typical. Facing all my demons, talking about the bad stuff leaves me drained.

  No matter how much I want to, I can’t change my past. Not even what happened between Ethan and me. What’s done is done. Though I wish I knew what ruined it. I believed we had a connection. I felt it. Did he? Maybe not. Maybe it was all me? It had to have been me. Maybe he discovered who I really am. All it would take is a simple Google search, though he’d have to figure out my last name. If he did discover who I am, that would turn off any normal guy.

  Too much baggage, he’d think. Too damaged.

  I’ve turned the night of our dinner over and over again in my head and I still can’t figure out where everything went wrong.

  I’ll probably never figure it out.

  Unlocking the car, I climb into the driver’s seat and slam the door, jam the key into the ignition, and start the motor. But I don’t move. It’s like I’m consumed with thoughts of that stupid text that wasn’t even meant for me. I should ignore it. He doesn’t deserve to hear from me ever again. He’s a jerk who lost his chance.

  Right?

  He’s a jerk I wish I could see again, as stupid as that sounds.

  Unable to stand it any longer, I pull my phone out of my purse and type Ethan a reply.

  I think you meant to send this to someone else. ☺

  I agonize over that stupid smiley face like it’s the most important thing on the planet. Finally deciding against it, I hit the back button, delete the too-cheery symbol, and hit send.

  And pray I don’t look like an idiot.

  “Why can’t I see him?” I was in a hospital bed, all bandaged up, and Mom sat by my side. They wrapped my ribs and my wrist, which I somehow sprained during my days in captivity. The cut on my mouth still throbs, though they said it wasn’t bad enough for stitches. The bruise on my cheek—the one he caused when he slapped me so hard that first day—is already fading.

  They decided to keep me in the hospital for a few days—for observation, they called it. They’d already poked and prodded me in every way conceivable, so I couldn’t imagine what more they wanted to observe. Maybe they were afraid I would lose my mind and try to kill myself.

  Too late. I already feel dead inside.

  “See who?” The confused expression on Mom’s face wasn’t a surprise. She’d looked that way from the moment we were reunited, when they first saw me in that tiny interrogation room in the back of the police station. My parents had clung to me and we all cried together for what felt like forever.

  There were no more tears at the hospital, only confusion and questions. Lots and lots of questions, ones I had to answer again and again, to the point where I felt like I was
on constant repeat.

  “Will,” I whispered, irritated that she wasn’t really paying attention to me. She was too distracted by some suited-up guys that stood in the hall outside my hospital room. Men who would probably come in here at any minute and ask me yet another set of questions.

  I was so sick of it.

  Horror filled Mom’s eyes and she shook her head, her mouth thinned into a tight line. “Absolutely not,” she said vehemently. “You can’t talk to that boy ever again.”

  My heart cracked. Beyond my family and Sarah, Will was the only other person I wanted to see. I needed to know he was all right. He took care of me and it was my turn to take care of him. “Why? I just want to thank him for helping me.” I was whining but I didn’t care. “He’s not the enemy, Mom.”

  “He’s the son of that—that horrible man, so he is most definitely the enemy,” Mom said with a nod of finality. One that read over my dead body will I let you see that boy.

  “I just want to thank him,” I said again. I sank my head into the pillow, closing my eyes. No one really listened to me when it came to Will. They wouldn’t tell me what they were thinking, but I figured them out. They hated him. The police. My parents. The detectives and the doctors and the nurses—I could tell by the way they all exchanged knowing glances when I brought up his name. They believed he had something to do with this. It was like they wanted me to confess that he hit me and raped me, too, even though I denied it over and over.

  They didn’t care. They wouldn’t listen.

  “He didn’t help his father,” I told Mom, speaking to her back. She stared at the doorway, wringing her hands in her lap. “He helped me. He saved me. The only reason we’re together right now is because of him. Because of Will.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes clouded with worry. “You’re confused, darling. Please, just . . . stop talking about him. He’s not worth your time or energy. The cops say that he’s been in trouble before but they can’t say how because he’s a juvenile. He’s no good. You need to forget he even exists.”

  I couldn’t give her what she wanted. “But I can’t forget that he exists. He’s the reason I’m alive.” My entire body ached. My arms, my legs, my back, my throat, between my legs . . . it all hurt so bad and I didn’t know how it could be fixed. Time, the doctor had told me. The bruises would eventually fade. The sprained wrist would soon be as good as new. The broken ribs would heal.

  Would my broken heart ever heal? I wanted to ask but I remained quiet. I’m pretty positive he wouldn’t have the answer.

  “You’re alive because of you,” she said, turning to face me once more. “You’re a survivor. No one helped you. You did it all yourself.”

  Was my mother delusional? She hadn’t been there, I had. And Will Monroe was the one who got me out of that storage shed, no one else.

  “Mom, you sound crazy,” I whispered, and she glared at me. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this. The cops said it, too—Will was the one who saved me.”

  Her gaze flickered, like she couldn’t stand the fact that I would even dare say his name. “Then write him a letter,” she suggested, as if that were the perfect solution. “Write him a nice letter and thank him for all that he did for you. That should suffice.”

  “I don’t know his address.” A letter wouldn’t be enough to express my gratitude. I couldn’t come up with the words to tell him how much it meant, what he did for me. It wasn’t just about me thanking him, either—I needed the connection with Will. He was the only person in this entire world who knew what I went through. He understood what happened. He saw me at my worst, in stained, old clothes, chained to a wall, lying on a filthy mattress after I’d been beaten. And still he took care of me.

  “Someone will know,” she said as her head swiveled toward the doorway again. But the men in suits were gone. Good.

  “No, I don’t think they will. I think they’re going to put him in foster care, since his—father is missing and his mom isn’t around.” My mother looked shocked that I knew so much about Will, but she couldn’t understand. People bonded when they spent time together trying to survive.

  “Katie, you’re being difficult.” She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Send the letter to the police station. I’m sure they’ll forward it on to him.”

  “It’s silly to have a letter forwarded to him when he’s probably in this hospital right now, getting checked out, like me.” I leaned forward. The sudden movement made my head swim, and I lay back against the pillow carefully. “I don’t want to send him a letter, Mom, I want to see him. I want to talk to him. Just for a few minutes. Do you know if he’s here? Are they keeping him like they’re keeping me?”

  “He’s not in the hospital. He wasn’t even hurt,” Mom sniffed. Like this was some sort of contest and I took first prize for the ugliest wounds. “They were holding him at the police station, but they’ve probably already let him go. For all we know he could be in jail. They might’ve found out some information we don’t know about.”

  Dread trickled ice cold down my spine. No way would they put him in jail. He was just a kid. He didn’t do anything wrong. “Ask the detectives over there. I bet they know where he is.” I waved my hand to try to get their attention and Mom lunged from her chair, pinning my arm to the hospital bed, her face in mine. I reared back, startled by her reaction, uncomfortable with her closeness. My heart was racing as I blinked up at her.

  “No. I’m sorry, Katie, but I refuse to let you see that boy ever again.” She stared at me, her eyes wide and full of fear and disgust and a few other emotions I didn’t recognize. “He’s not—he’s not good for you. I don’t want you spending time with him.”

  “He’s my friend.” Tears fell down my cheeks and I wiped at them furiously, not even aware I was crying until I felt them dampening my skin. “Doesn’t that matter?”

  “You need no reminders of what happened.” She stood and wrung her hands together, like she’d just rid herself of all that unpleasantness. “It’s time to move on. Not relive what happened to you again and again.”

  “Well, the detectives aren’t helping me with the reliving part, what with their constant questions,” I retorted, crossing my arms in front of my chest. But the movement only caused me pain and I winced, letting my arms fall to my sides.

  She sent me a look. “Stop being obtuse. You know what I mean. That boy.” Her lips screwed up into the ugliest pout I’d ever seen. At this very moment, she looked so vulnerable, so old. When did she get so old? There were wrinkles around her eyes, her lips were thin, and her hair—I could see gray mixed with the dark blond strands. I felt bad. Really bad. Did what happened to me age her that quickly? “There’s no hope for him. Believe me. Seeing him will only dredge up unpleasant memories and I want you healing, not trying to relive everything.”

  “So you’re not going to let me see him.” My voice was more breath than sound and my heart hurt at the realization that I might never see Will again.

  She shook her head, her expression firm. “It’s pointless.”

  According to her.

  I think you meant to send this to someone else.

  I stare at the text on my screen from Katie, nerves eating at my gut. Last night I’d been feeling lonely and read over our few text messages like a lovesick idiot. I never got out of the text conversation with Katie when I sent the message to my client Linda, asking if we could reschedule our afternoon meeting for tomorrow.

  Instead of texting Linda, I’d texted Katie.

  If I ignore her I’m a dick. If I answer . . . I’m still a dick, because I’ve avoided her for over a week. I had no plans to contact her again. After that letter from my father, I knew I couldn’t keep this up. Toying with someone’s emotions when the person is already so fragile is dangerous and cruel.

  I’m not sure if I’m talking about Katie or myself.

  I text my client first, resending her the message that I can’t meet today, and she immediately repl
ies saying that’s fine. I’ve fallen a little behind on projects and I can only blame it on my twisted feelings for Katie. Despite not seeing her for the last nine days, I still think about her. Constantly.

  Too much.

  Her text haunts me and I switch to that conversation, staring at what she wrote. I can hear her voice, sweet and hesitant. I can see her face, those big blue eyes, her slightly pursed lips. I don’t know how to reply without looking like an asshole, but not saying anything is worse, so I decide to keep it short.

  Thanks for letting me know.

  I hit send before I can add anything else and pray like hell she doesn’t reply right away. Or ever.

  My phone buzzes and I close my eyes. Breathe deep. Open my eyes to read Katie’s reply.

  You’re welcome.

  That’s it. I exhale in relief. In disappointment. What did I expect? A warm greeting? A pissed-off “where have you been”? She wouldn’t do that. She’s too sweet, too hesitant, too unsure. She doesn’t date, she’s never had a relationship, and here I am toying with her like a complete prick.

  But I can’t resist her. I don’t want to resist her. It’s like I have this need inside me that keeps growing and growing.

  The need to see, to touch Katie.

  I clutch my phone tight, stare at the screen. Start typing before I can stop myself.

  How are you?

  Good.

  A pause.

  And you?

  She’s being polite. I need to stop communicating with her. I’m just getting myself in deeper and soon I won’t be able to climb out of the hole I’ve dug myself. I’m already in too deep.

  I feel like shit.

  Her reply is immediate.