I may be skeptical of relationships, but I’m a complete sucker for other people’s happy endings. Which I guess makes me a hypocrite when I don’t believe in love for myself.
“We met at a coffee shop outside campus.” He shoves a forkful of stuffing in his mouth and points at me. “You took me there. Pat’s Café?”
I nod for him to go on.
“She’s a freshman, too. Bio major. And we got along really well.”
“Tell me more? When are you seeing her again?”
“Next week. She went home for the holiday. She lives in Boston.”
“What’s her name?”
“Julia.” Tommy points at me with a knife this time. “Back to you. Why aren’t you dating? I haven’t seen you with anyone since we met.”
I sit back, put distance between us, between the question and me.
“I’m taking a break from dating.” Truth.
I twist the napkin in my lap. “Not interested in anyone.” Lie. I glance at Dylan, who has stayed quiet during the whole exchange. What is he thinking? They’re both still watching me.
I shrug. “Anyway, dating is overrated.” Smooth, Becca. Seriously? Is that what you came up with? Overrated?
Dylan leans into the table, gets closer to me. “I don’t know. Dating can be complicated. And with the wrong person, overrated, yes. But sometimes you take a chance on someone you never imagined being with, and the results can be surprising and not overrated at all.”
Chapter Thirty-One
She looks at me and blinks as if it could clear away the confusion I see in her hazel eyes. I have been an ass, and my flirting with her today is the last thing she expected me to do. But, God, I’m done denying myself. I’m done pushing her away. Riggins’ rules and ethics be damned.
I hope she doesn’t hate me.
I hope I’m not too late.
I hope we can be together …
If she will have me.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I can’t believe I’m doing this. Driving to my father’s house to meet his family. My family.
Guilt at bailing on his Thanksgiving invitation had me promising to meet them over the weekend. We agreed on Saturday. I planned on coming up with an excuse. But I didn’t. I spent all yesterday thinking about Dylan and nibbling on Thanksgiving leftovers. He’s a puzzle I can’t put together. It’s like he’s two different people. The cold professor I see at Riggins and this kind and funny guy I saw at his home. Something about him is so familiar.
“Destination in one hundred feet,” the GPS announces, and I slow down, taking in the neighborhood. Single-family homes, landscaped lawns, lots of trees now bare, the leaves long gone.
“Arrived. Destination on your right.”
I park at the curb, tap the screen to end route, and sit taking in the house. Not too big or too small. Two floors. A path leading from the driveway to the front door. Toys, two bikes, and a soccer ball are scattered around the lawn.
I walk up the driveway and to the path that leads to the front door. Before I can ring the bell or knock, the door opens. My father is on the other side, a huge smile on his face.
“Come in.” He steps back and opens the door wider.
I hesitate for a moment, then step in. What sounds like a stampede grows louder, and before I can react, I’m embraced by little arms. Small hands clutching at my coat. High-pitched squeals and laughter. Two pairs of bright eyes looking up at me. One pair hazel like mine and the other bright blue. My sister and brother wrap themselves around me. I never expected this … this openness, this welcome, this much affection. They don’t know me, and yet they act like they do and they’ve missed me.
“Guys, guys, guys, give her some space.” My father steps in and picks up the boy, Hunter.
My sister, Mara, releases me but grabs my hand in both of hers. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
I blink several times, pushing away the tears trying to well in my eyes. “I’m happy to be here too, Mara.” She jumps and squeals again. The boy kicks his legs to be let down.
“Come on, guys, let her come in.” I look up. A woman stands a few feet away, drying her hands on a dish towel. She’s smiling. The boy runs to her and hides behind her leg.
“What? Are you shy now?” She looks at her son with so much love it makes my heart ache.
Mara tugs at my hand. “Come! Mom made cookies, and we’re not allowed to eat them until you got here.”
“Mara! Manners, please. I’m Linda,” she introduces herself.
I step closer to shake her hand, but she pulls me into a hug.
“We’re a hugging family.” She gestures to the kids. “And these two little monsters you just met are Mara and Hunter.”
My father touches my elbow. “Come on in. The good stuff is in the kitchen.” His smile takes his entire face.
We all follow Linda and settle around the table, Mara never leaving my side. Linda grabs small paper plates and napkins. The kids take over and set the table.
“Coffee, tea, hot chocolate?” Linda asks.
“Coffee is fine, thank you.”
A plate of chocolate chip cookies appears, little hands make a grab for them.
“Guys!” Linda tries to get their attention. “Guests first.”
“She’s not a guest, she’s my sister.” Mara speaks around a mouth full of cookies.
“My sister too!” Hunter mimics her.
And it hits home. Sister. Their words make it real. My heart gallops, the sound of a thousand hooves in my ears. I blink, willing the tears to stay away. Linda sets a coffee mug in front of me. My father takes my hand and squeezes it. The kids watch me with wide eyes. And I crumble.
A sob escapes, and then another. And in an instant, I’m surrounded by all of them. My father, my sister, my brother, Linda. The four of them hug me, hold me, keep me from falling apart.
“That’s okay.”
“Everything is all right.”
“Don’t worry.”
They whisper and soothe me and cry with me. They put me back together, ease the ache in my chest, decrease the thundering of my heart, shift the weight off my shoulders, bear the pain I carry.
I suck in a breath and release. One by one they step back, but stay close, within arm's reach. I find their faces, their eyes, and smiles. And as if by mutual accord, we all laugh at the same time. The hurt erased by the joyful sound, my heart a thousand pounds lighter.
Chapter Thirty-Three
I’m pacing back and forth, walking what seems like miles in the same five or six feet of space, while I wait for River. I stuff my hands in my pockets, remove them, repeat. My feet itch to run and get away. I dig in my heels. Wait.
She walks down the path toward me. She waves.
I respond with stilted movements. My arm leaden. “Hey, thanks for coming.”
She hugs me. “Of course. Like I could say no after that text message. I’ve been wondering all day what this important talk is about.”
The afternoon breeze blows hair into my face, and I tug it behind my ear with a shaky hand. Distant voices float from somewhere down the path, but this part of the campus is quiet. A garden bench sits empty a few feet from where we stand, but I need distance between us and other people.
“Let’s walk.”
I step off the path and onto the grass, now more brown than green, and squishy under my feet. River walks next to me. My head down, I watch each measured step. River matches her steps to mine. I’m sure she can sense my anxiety. She has always been able to, even though I denied it each time.
This part of the campus is always quiet, but even more so this late in the season. The sky is the clear and a crisp blue that’s only present in the coldest of days. But the sun makes being outside pleasant, even if what I came here to do is anything but.
I inhale, the frigid air stings as it fills my chest. “You know how I said I was going home for Thanksgiving?”
“Yeah.” River’s tone is cautious.
“I lied.
” The confession barely above a whisper.
River stops and looks at me in silence. Her expression is open and patient. I want to look away. I want to turn and run. I want to take back the words.
But I don't.
I can’t.
I face her and drop my armor. I face her and open my heart, perhaps for the first time while looking someone in the eyes.
River doesn't ask questions, she gives me time.
“I’m not going home for Christmas. I didn't go home for Thanksgiving. Or Easter. Or summer break. Or spring break. Or any other holiday for the last four years.”
Her eyes widen, her lips part. She still says nothing. I like this about her. She knows when to speak up, and she knows when to wait. Most of the time she's like a hurricane on crack, but right now she’s quiet, and the quiet gives me the courage I need to go on.
“I left my home—no, not my home—I left the house I grew up in at eighteen for my first year at Riggins. And I never went back.”
I look away from her. I knew this would be hard. Speaking up, saying the words I've taken so much care to hide, is scary. I walk again, and River falls into step next to me.
“I didn't have the life you did growing up. I didn’t meet my father until a few months ago. He's actually a nice guy.” I smile. The memory of meeting my siblings is one I’ll always treasure. “But my mom? My mom is a different story.” I look around the park again, make sure there’s no one close enough to hear us. We’re still alone.
The breeze picks up and ruffles my hair, most of the brown is faded, and it is nearly to my natural color. So much has changed. I stopped dyeing my hair almost a year ago. It might be symbolic. A rebirth of sorts.
I’m claiming myself back.
“My mother is an addict. Alcohol, drugs, whatever you can think of, she has tried.”
River reaches out and takes my hand in between hers, and we stop again.
“My mother was never a mother to me. She was negligent on her best days. But most of the time she was abusive and angry. She blamed me for ruining her life.”
River squeezes my hand. Steps closer.
“We were poor, and whatever money Mom got she spent on drugs and alcohol. I cannot tell you how many nights I went to bed hungry, or how many days I went without eating.”
She squeezes my hand a little harder, and there are tears in her eyes. And she hasn’t heard the worst part yet.
“I had free lunch at school. Most days it was the only meal I had. Weekends were the worst. I had no escape. She had men come sometimes. Leave money for her. I learned very early on to steal the money so I could walk to the corner store and buy food. Most of the time she was so high on something or another she didn’t realize money was missing. I never took more than a couple dollars here and there. I had to hide somewhere and eat. If she saw me with food, she’d get mad.”
River’s eyes fill with unshed tears. “No one realized what was happening? How did you survive it?”
“People noticed. Everyone knew my mother was no good. But they were just as poor and minded their own business. I don’t think anyone knew the extent of what happened, and if they did, they didn’t care.”
River wipes her tears with her fingertips. “How did she support herself? She didn’t work?”
“No. She was on some kind of disability. And she had a string of men who came through, and they gave her money. Some were even nice. Even high or drunk, she was beautiful. And men flocked to her. I don’t even know where she met them. Bars would be my guess. She brought them home, and sometimes they would stick around and try to help, bring food. Even try to get her to sober up. Those didn’t last too long. She didn’t like anyone who was actually nice to her.” Or me.
There are tears running down River’s face now, the corner of her eyes smudged in black. She wipes her face with a sleeve and pulls me into a hug.
“I’m sorry, I'm so sorry, Becca. I had no idea.”
I let her hug me for a little longer before pushing away and putting some space between us. My throat tightens. I dig in my backpack and find a water bottle. Drink, push down the knot. Swallow my pain.
We walk again, River’s arm through mine. “As bad as it was when I was little, it was nothing compared to when I was a teenager.”
Tears prick my eyes now. I’ve pushed them away for so long. Stuffed these feelings deep inside, as if ignoring the hurt could make it go away. But I’ve learned that talking about what troubles me, bringing it to the surface, makes it easier to let go.
“My mom got a new boyfriend.”
River’s hand goes to her mouth, and she holds back a sob. Can she already guess what's coming?
“At first I was happy. We always had something to eat when he was around. He didn't yell at me like my mother. Or get high like her other boyfriends before him. He was kind to me when my mother was not around. But he ignored me if she was in the same space as us. She would get jealous if he gave me any attention.”
I stop again and disengage. I can’t be touching anyone right now.
“After a few weeks, he moved in. He had a job, he’d buy groceries, give her money, and he didn’t care she got drunk or high. I didn’t understand why he was with us or why he fueled her addiction, but for the first time, I wasn’t hungry or cold all the time. In my limited view, that was a good thing.”
I walk again. River follows at my side, keeps the few inches of space between us. I’m grateful for that.
“It started innocently enough. A ruffle of my hair, a hand on my shoulder or a hug when he said hello or goodbye. But over time, as my child’s body started giving way to the body of a teen girl, that touch became a little more lingering. The hugs felt a little tighter. The hand to the shoulder would go up and down my back and sides.”
Sensory overload crowds my head. Rough hands with dirty fingernails. The smell of sweat and weed. The sound of heavy breathing.
I bend at the waist, brace my hands on my knees, drag in deep breaths and push the wave of sickness away. It's not enough. I stand up and take a few steps away and lace my fingers behind my head, press my arms, close my eyes and squeeze them shut. Turn my back to River. Purge the images.
The only sound I can hear is my own breathing. Everything else fades away, the breeze rustling in the trees, the birds singing, noises in the distance, it's all gone. Right now, in this moment, it’s me, my thoughts, and my breath. I drop my arms, lift my face to the sky and open my eyes. Not a cloud in sight, there’s so much blue—how can anything bad ever happen under such a beautiful sky?
I turn back to River. “The abuse lasted four years. He was smart and conniving. I didn't even know it was happening at first. In the beginning, it was small touches. He'd rub his hand over my nonexistent breasts. I was so skinny and small, I hadn't even gotten my period yet.”
River covers her mouth with both hands. Her head moving side to side as if her shaking it could erase what happened to me.
“I was so starved for attention, for love. I never recognized what he was doing to me.”
Her hands go to her chest. “He was grooming you.”
“Yes. My mother never touched me, never hugged me or kissed me. She never said she loved me. I liked his attention. I craved love and connection, and I thought he cared about me, like a dad would. I was so stupid. So naïve.”
“You were a child. It’s not your fault.”
River is right, I know, but a part of me still believes it was my fault. I should have known because I didn’t deserve to be loved. My mother taught me that.
“I know I was a child, and I now know he deceived me all along.” I shake my head, disgusted with myself. “But I should have guessed. I should have known something was very wrong. No one was ever kind to me. Why would this man who came to my house to be with my mother have any interest in me?”
“He was grooming you. I’ve read about cases like these dozens of times. Men like him are smart, they’ve done it before, and they prey on kids and people who can’t defen
d themselves.”
“And I was the perfect victim.” I know she's right, but it doesn’t make me feel any different. “And do you want to know what's the worst part? Once I figured out what was happening, when the touches started feeling intrusive and making me uncomfortable, I told my mother. I told her he was touching me. I told her I didn't like the way he looked at me. And you know what she did?”
River shakes her head.
“She slapped me. She called me a liar. She said I was trying to steal her man. She kicked me out of the house. I was thirteen then. It was the middle of winter. She wouldn’t let me back in the house. I stayed huddled in a corner against the wall, shivering for hours. Until he came home and let me in.”
I hit myself in the chest with a fist. “And I was fucking grateful because he let me into the house. I hated how he made me feel when he touched me, but I was grateful because he also saved me. He saved me in so many ways. He fed me, he bought me clothes, he showed me kindness and kept my mother away from me when she went into one of her rages.”
I take a step back, needing to put some distance between me and River. Between me and the memories. “And as much as I hated him, I also loved him because he was the only good thing I had, until I didn’t. Until he changed, and I blamed myself for it too. How fucking messed up is that?”
I swallow the boulder that parked itself in my throat. My body is so stiff it feels as if my bones will crack. I squeeze my eyes shut. I had no choice. What could I have done? Run away? To where? Tell someone? I tried. She didn’t believe me.
“They had a huge fight. But he convinced her I was confused, none of the things I said were true, that it was just teenage fantasies. He promised her he would keep his distance from me so I wouldn't feel that way anymore. And she believed him. But he lied. He continued to touch me. He threatened to kill her if I said anything again. He said he would kill her and make it look like I did it. That I’d go to jail and far worse things than him touching me would happen.”
River takes a step toward me. I both want and don't want her to get any closer. I know she's trying to comfort me, but to have anyone touch me right now is too much. I put my hands up, and she stops. Tears run down her face, but she doesn't get any closer.
Because of Dylan: A forbidden student teacher slow burn romance (Riggins U Book 3) Page 17
