Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
“Do you know anything about her?”
“Honestly? No.” I break the candy into two pieces and eat one. “My father never talked about her. He just pretended she never existed. I only have one picture of her that I hid in a Bible growing up because it was the one place my dad wouldn’t look.”
Gray takes a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “You told me once that your father was a sonofabitch.”
“I must’ve felt nice that day.”
The only sound filling the pregnant pause between us is the whirling of the ceiling fan.
I lie still, focusing on my heart rate. It rocks against my ribs as if it’s gearing up to fight or flee—because that’s what thoughts of John Lawsen do to me. They put me in survival mode.
Gianna knows some of the things I experienced with my father, although not all. It wasn’t something we liked to spend our time chatting about in high school. And I’ve shared some things with Audrey, but not a lot—probably not even enough to paint an accurate picture of my life on Hemlock Street.
The only person in the world that I have told more to than anyone else is Trace.
Acid fills my stomach as memories of Trace weaponizing my experiences against me. The name-calling. The belittling. He used my wounds as a target and shot arrows into them until they wept.
“I’m not prodding you for information,” Gray says, wrapping his arm around me and pulling me close to his side. “But I want you to know that I meant it when I said that you’re safe with me. I’ve gone through my share of shit, and when you have no one to talk to about it, it just festers.”
Thinking about my father usually feels like a scab being picked off an old wound. I brace myself against Gray’s body, waiting for the discomfort and pain to streak through me. Yet … it doesn’t. I monitor my breath, feeling the air enter and exit my lungs, and the panic doesn’t come.
“He was an alcoholic,” I say softly, the words flowing out of my mouth. “My grandmother said it started when Mom died. When I was born. That was a fact that he never let me forget.”
Gray kisses the side of my head, nuzzling his face in my hair.
“He always said that I was selfish from the start,” I say. “That I killed my mother and would do anything to get what I want. He’d punish me for everything and nothing—withholding food, refusing to let me use hot water for showers, and making me wear dirty clothes to school.”
Gray’s body stiffens, and his grip on me tightens. He doesn’t speak, but I can feel his jaw tense against my skull. And his reaction, as if he cares about the pain that little Astrid went through, has tears pooling in the corners of my eyes.
“I wasn’t allowed to play sports,” I say, blinking back the tears. Sand fills my chest just like it did when I lived with him. “I wanted to be in the band in junior high and found a guitar at a yard sale. The woman ended up giving it to me for free.” I sniffle against the burn across the bridge of my nose. “Dad smashed it against the wood stove the first night I had it.”
“God,” Gray bites out, squeezing me.
“He stole my journals and teased me relentlessly about what was inside them. His friends would come over and make comments about my body and say wholly inappropriate things to a preteen girl. Dad didn’t care. If I got upset, I was being an emotional bitch, and he’d make me clean the house or he’d smack me with an open hand because if his hand was open, it wasn’t abuse.”
I take a breath, feeling like I’m being suffocated. I can sense the sting in my cheek, the bruise on my arm, and the pain searing my scalp from being dragged around the house by my ponytail.
“He refused to buy me tampons when I got my period and called me a little whore for having the audacity to menstruate,” I say hurriedly. “So I got a job at fourteen. But he just bullied me into giving him my paychecks so he could buy lottery tickets and vodka because he had to pay for the utilities and whatnot.”
A tear rolls down my cheek.
“Fuck, Astrid.” He exhales slowly. “I’m so sorry.”
I clutch his arm as something inside me cracks open. It’s a flood of emotion, a wave of memories that I haven’t thought about in a long time. But unlike past moments when I’ve faced these things myself, they don’t take me out with them. I don’t get washed away with the tide.
That’s progress. That’s empowering. It’s freeing.
“Where is your dad now?” Gray asks, his tone frigid.