Sustained(68)

I do as I’m told and she climbs onto the bed behind me. I lie back against the pillow, one arm bent behind my head. Chelsea nestles up close, her cheek resting above my heart.

“What’s going on with you, Jake?”

Somewhere deep inside lies the truth. It’s curled up into a tight, black ball, under heavy blankets of disappointment. Fear. And shame. But it wants to show itself the way a wounded animal exposes its tender underbelly when it knows it’s beaten. Just to hasten whatever comes next.

“I’m not a good man.”

The whispered confession echoes in the still room. Chelsea lifts her head and I feel the point of her chin against my ribs. “You’re one of the best men I’ve ever known. In every way possible.” There’s disbelief in her voice—playfulness—like she thinks I’m teasing her.

I don’t bother arguing. She’ll know soon enough. The truth will set you free. What a fucking joke. When the truth is ugly, it holds you prisoner, and when it’s revealed, it tears the whole world down around you.

“Did I ever tell you about my father?”

“You said he left when you were eight.”

I snort. “Yeah, he left all right.” I shake my head as I dive back into that dark lake of memories best forgotten. “He was a mean bastard, even on a good day. But when he drank . . . he was truly dangerous. My mother . . . she used to sit so still, I’d watch her chest, just to make sure she was still breathing. It was like she was trying to blend into the wallpaper, so he wouldn’t have a reason . . .”

But guys like my old man don’t need a reason.

They make their own.

My voice goes flat and faraway. “The last time . . . it was because she sneezed.” I see it in my mind. The way he upended the tray, the way his dinner splattered across the TV and clung to the walls, leaving a greasy mashed-potato trail as it slid down. The way he grabbed her. “Can you believe it? She fucking sneezed.”

For the first time since I began, I look at Chelsea. She gazes at me with sympathy, sadness. Her brows are weighted, the corners of her mouth heavy with compassion that doesn’t feel at all like pity.

“And she was so little, Chelsea. Even as a kid, I could see she was so much smaller than him.” I moisten my lips, so the rest of the words can pass. “He threw her down the stairs and I remember thinking he wasn’t going to stop this time. He’d told her he’d do it one day. That when it happened, he’d bury her where no one could find her. He’d said no one would miss her . . .” My eyes sting with the memory and my throat squeezes. “No one but me.”

I blink away moisture and clear my throat. “So I went to the box under the bed—the dumb fuck stored the thing loaded. And I walked back to the living room and pointed it at him. It wasn’t heavy; my hands didn’t shake at all. But when I cocked it, the sound it made—it seemed so loud. He stopped, right away—froze. He knew exactly what that sound was. He turned around, slowly, and I kept it aimed right at his chest. I told him to go, to get away from us . . . or I would kill him. And I really fucking would have.”

At some point, Chelsea’s hand started rubbing soothing circles on my chest, my stomach, but I didn’t feel her touch until just now. It gives me the motivation I need to finish.

“I guess it’s true what they say about cowards. They only prey on easy targets, the ones who don’t fight back. Because he left and didn’t come back.”

For a moment, the only noise in the room is the sound of our breaths moving in time. Then Chelsea says with admiration, “That’s why you do what you do.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a defender. You defend people. Like you defended your mother . . . and Rory. You gave them a chance, to have a new start.”

My eyes squeeze shut. “Most people don’t see it that way, Chelsea.”

Her warm hand cups my jaw. “I see it that way.”

The look on her face is everything I want it to be. Gentle, adoring—like I’m the hero of the story. And god, I want to be fucking selfish. I want to roll us over, peel her clothes off, and eradicate any chance she’ll ever look at me any differently than she is at this moment.

I want to get to keep her.

But ugly truth always comes out eventually. And she deserves to hear it from me.

“Today I defended a man exactly like my father.”

Her stroking hand stutters. Stops.

“His wife . . . she’s stayed with him for thirty years—took everything he dished out—and she finally got the courage to leave. To tell him to go screw himself.” I pause, swallowing. “And I took that away from her.