Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Funny how I don’t care all that much right now. He still didn’t trust me enough to reply to a fucking email. Does he think I would turn him over to the police because of some scars on his face? Doesn’t he know me better than that?
My head feels like it’s in a vise, my skull ready to crack open. My brother is alive, and he fucked my girlfriend. Not that he hasn’t before, but that was different. We were forced to do it back then.
Weren’t we? Am I just telling myself that?
Now I know one thing for sure, at least. That text came from him, telling me to take better care of her. Like he knows anything about it. I’m the one who loves her.
“What are you doing?” Her tearful question doesn’t stop me as I throw the bedroom door open and grab the phone I left on the kitchen counter.
So this is how he wants it? He wants to play games? He wants to hide from me, like there’s anything we couldn’t get through together? He’d rather sneak around and take what’s mine than be a man about it.
Pulling up the anonymous text he sent the night he forced Leni to suck him off in an alley—the thought alone is enough to make my stomach turn—I type out a response.
You fucking coward. You can’t tell me where you are, but you can sneak in here while I’m gone? Why don’t you show yourself?
That’s not even half of what’s on my mind, and by the time I send the message, I already know there’s more to say. Thinking of the way Leni described him, I add:
You hurt Leni. You made her cry, but I’m still open to hearing you out. Whatever happened, whatever you did, we’ll figure out what to do next. Together. But I need you to tell me where you are.
And then I wait, staring down at the phone, willing him to respond. He has to. He can’t ignore me. I’m his fucking brother. I’m the only person who will understand. He has to know that. We’ve been through too much for him to forget it.
But either he has forgotten, or he doesn’t care. Whatever the reason, he leaves me hanging—one minute passing after another with no response.
I’m going to explode. I’m going to hurt somebody. He can’t do this. Not to me.
But he is, and the feeling of helplessness that comes with it makes my hand curl into a fist, which I slam against the closest wall hard enough to leave a dent. The pain in my knuckles is almost welcome. It gives me something else to focus on instead of imagining all the ways I want to make my brother pay for keeping this secret.
And for touching what isn’t his to touch. For seven months, she’s been mine alone.
Knowing I’ve shared her with him puts everything in a different light. An uncomfortable and ugly light that shines on things I would rather leave in the dark.
14
LENI
“You know, we’ve spent the better part of the past hour together, and all you’ve done so far is talk about your boyfriend and his brother.” Dr. Miller removes her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose, sighing softly. She doesn’t usually reveal her feelings about what I’m saying—I guess that’s the way it’s supposed to be. She’s meant to be a blank page, a surface for me to imprint my thoughts on so she can help me figure them out. This is only our third session, but I’m already getting the sense of how things are supposed to go.
Obviously, if she’s already calling me out, it’s a problem.
“I care so much about them.” The words feel empty, but there’s no way I could possibly express the depth of my feelings. Or the depth of my confusion—how conflicted I feel whenever I think about Nix, how he treated me, how frightening he is now. It’s been four days since he tied me up, and I’m no closer to understanding how I feel about it than I was when I heard the front door slam shut while I trembled in bed, aching and quivering and hating myself.
I don’t know what to think about how I reacted. How easy it was to come with him inside me. I fought against it—or at least I tried my hardest—but it was like my body took over. I might as well have told myself to stop breathing.
He brought up all the old thoughts, questions, fears. Maybe there’s something broken in me. The sort of broken that can’t be fixed by spending a couple of hours a week with a therapist.
“I’m sure you do, and it’s commendable—how much you love and how worried you are for them.” She shifts in her chair, frowning while looking down at her notes.