That night was the first time I’d ever been hit, and it was by my own mother. My sweet, gentle mother who couldn’t kill a spider, let alone spank her own daughter when she misbehaved, hit me. I asked who Jeff was and why he was telling me to call him Dad, and my mom hit me across the back with the new scotch bottle she’d been attempting to open. It didn’t break, but it left one nasty-looking bruise. From that point on, I never went a day without some kind of injury inflicted by one of them. Usually it was fists or palms, and I began welcoming those, because when they started throwing coffee mugs, drinking glasses, or lamps, or when my mom took off her heels and repeatedly hit me in the head with the tip of her stiletto . . . I didn’t know if I would still be alive the next day. About a week after the first hit was when I first got beat with Jeff’s socket wrench, and that was the first night I opened my window, popped off the screen, and made my way to Tyler’s window. At seven years old, he helped me into his room, gave me some of his pajamas since my nightshirt was covered in blood, and held my hand as we fell asleep in his bed.
Over the last eleven years, Tyler has begged me to let him tell his parents what was going on, but I couldn’t let that happen. If Tyler told them, they would call someone and I knew they would take me away from Tyler. My hero had died, and the mom I loved had disappeared down a bottle; no way was I letting someone take me from Ty too. The only way I had gotten him to agree was agreeing myself that if he ever found me unconscious, all promises were off and he could tell whomever he wanted. But that was just keeping Tyler quiet; we never had factored in the neighbors . . .
After the first three years of the abuse, I stopped sneaking out to Ty’s house every night, only doing so on the nights when it was something other than body parts hitting me, but Tyler was always waiting, no matter what. He kept a first aid kit in his room, and would clean up and bandage anything he was able to. We butterfly-bandaged almost all the cuts, but three times he forced me to get stitches. We told his dad I tripped over something while going for a run outside each time. I’m not naïve, I knew his dad didn’t believe me—especially since I was not one for running, and the only time I was involved with sports was watching it on Ty’s TV—but we were always careful to hide my bruises around him and he never tried to figure out where I actually got the cuts from. I’d sit at their kitchen table and let him sew me up, they’d let me out the front door when they were sure I was okay, and Tyler would be waiting by his open window as soon as I rounded the house. Every night he had something ready for me to sleep in, and every night he would hold my hand and curl his body around mine until we fell asleep.
So when Tyler kissed my forehead, cheek, or hand, it never meant anything romantic. He was just comforting me in the same way he had since we were kids.
“Cassi? Did I lose you?” Tyler waved his hand in front of my face.
“Sorry. Life, starting over. Friends, yeah, this, uh—will be—I need to . . . friends.” I’m pretty sure there was English somewhere in that sentence.
Ty barked out a laugh and squeezed my knee, and after a few silent minutes he thankfully changed the subject. “So what do you think about the apartment?”
“It’s great. Are you sure you want me to stay with you? I can get my own place, or even sleep on the couch . . .” My own place? That was such a far-fetched idea it was almost funny; I didn’t even have a hundred dollars to my name.
“No way, I’ve shared my bed with you for eleven years, I’m not about to change that now.”
“Ty, but what about when you get a girlfriend? Are you really going to want to explain why I live with you? Why we share a dresser, closet, and bed?”
Tyler looked at me for a second before turning his eyes back to the road. His brown eyes had darkened, and his lips were mashed in a tight line. “You’re staying with me, Cassi.”
I sighed but didn’t say anything else. We’d had a version of this argument plenty of times. Every relationship he’d ever had ultimately ended because of me and the fact that we were always together. I hated that I ruined his relationships, and whenever he was dating someone I would even stop coming to his room and answering his calls so he could focus on his girlfriend instead. That never lasted long though; he’d climb through my window, pick me up out of bed, and take me back to his house. We never had to worry about my boyfriends, since I’d never had one. What with Tyler’s possessiveness and all, no one even attempted to get close enough to me. Not that it bothered me; the only guy I’d ever had feelings for was too old for me and had only been in my life for a few short minutes. The moment I’d answered the door to see him standing there, my stomach had started fluttering and I felt this weird connection with him I’d never felt with anyone, and even after he was gone I’d dreamed about his cool intensity and mesmerizing blue eyes. Ty didn’t know about him though, because what was the point? I’d just barely turned sixteen and he was a cop; I knew I’d never see him again, and I didn’t. Besides, other than my real dad and Ty, I had a problem with letting guys get close, strange connection or not. When my already-disturbed world turned completely upside down the minute a new man came into our house . . . trust issues were bound to happen.
Tyler had decided to go to the University of Texas in Austin, where his cousin Gage, who was two years older than us, was currently studying. I’d heard a lot about Gage and his family from Ty over the years, since they were his only cousins, and I was genuinely happy he was going. Gage was like a brother to him and Tyler hadn’t seen him in a few years, so their sharing an apartment would be good for Ty. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do when Tyler left; the only thing I did know was that I was getting away from the house I grew up in. I just had to make it another month until I turned eighteen and then I was gone. But Tyler, being Tyler, made my future plans for me. He crawled through my window, told me to pack my bag, and just before he could haul me off to his Jeep, he told Mom and Jeff exactly what he thought of them. I didn’t have time to worry about the consequences of his telling them off, because before I knew it we were on the freeway and headed for Texas. We made the trip in just over a day, and now, after being here long enough to unpack his Jeep and shower separately, we were headed to some lake for a party to meet up with Gage and his friends.
Over the last eleven years, Tyler has begged me to let him tell his parents what was going on, but I couldn’t let that happen. If Tyler told them, they would call someone and I knew they would take me away from Tyler. My hero had died, and the mom I loved had disappeared down a bottle; no way was I letting someone take me from Ty too. The only way I had gotten him to agree was agreeing myself that if he ever found me unconscious, all promises were off and he could tell whomever he wanted. But that was just keeping Tyler quiet; we never had factored in the neighbors . . .
After the first three years of the abuse, I stopped sneaking out to Ty’s house every night, only doing so on the nights when it was something other than body parts hitting me, but Tyler was always waiting, no matter what. He kept a first aid kit in his room, and would clean up and bandage anything he was able to. We butterfly-bandaged almost all the cuts, but three times he forced me to get stitches. We told his dad I tripped over something while going for a run outside each time. I’m not naïve, I knew his dad didn’t believe me—especially since I was not one for running, and the only time I was involved with sports was watching it on Ty’s TV—but we were always careful to hide my bruises around him and he never tried to figure out where I actually got the cuts from. I’d sit at their kitchen table and let him sew me up, they’d let me out the front door when they were sure I was okay, and Tyler would be waiting by his open window as soon as I rounded the house. Every night he had something ready for me to sleep in, and every night he would hold my hand and curl his body around mine until we fell asleep.
So when Tyler kissed my forehead, cheek, or hand, it never meant anything romantic. He was just comforting me in the same way he had since we were kids.
“Cassi? Did I lose you?” Tyler waved his hand in front of my face.
“Sorry. Life, starting over. Friends, yeah, this, uh—will be—I need to . . . friends.” I’m pretty sure there was English somewhere in that sentence.
Ty barked out a laugh and squeezed my knee, and after a few silent minutes he thankfully changed the subject. “So what do you think about the apartment?”
“It’s great. Are you sure you want me to stay with you? I can get my own place, or even sleep on the couch . . .” My own place? That was such a far-fetched idea it was almost funny; I didn’t even have a hundred dollars to my name.
“No way, I’ve shared my bed with you for eleven years, I’m not about to change that now.”
“Ty, but what about when you get a girlfriend? Are you really going to want to explain why I live with you? Why we share a dresser, closet, and bed?”
Tyler looked at me for a second before turning his eyes back to the road. His brown eyes had darkened, and his lips were mashed in a tight line. “You’re staying with me, Cassi.”
I sighed but didn’t say anything else. We’d had a version of this argument plenty of times. Every relationship he’d ever had ultimately ended because of me and the fact that we were always together. I hated that I ruined his relationships, and whenever he was dating someone I would even stop coming to his room and answering his calls so he could focus on his girlfriend instead. That never lasted long though; he’d climb through my window, pick me up out of bed, and take me back to his house. We never had to worry about my boyfriends, since I’d never had one. What with Tyler’s possessiveness and all, no one even attempted to get close enough to me. Not that it bothered me; the only guy I’d ever had feelings for was too old for me and had only been in my life for a few short minutes. The moment I’d answered the door to see him standing there, my stomach had started fluttering and I felt this weird connection with him I’d never felt with anyone, and even after he was gone I’d dreamed about his cool intensity and mesmerizing blue eyes. Ty didn’t know about him though, because what was the point? I’d just barely turned sixteen and he was a cop; I knew I’d never see him again, and I didn’t. Besides, other than my real dad and Ty, I had a problem with letting guys get close, strange connection or not. When my already-disturbed world turned completely upside down the minute a new man came into our house . . . trust issues were bound to happen.
Tyler had decided to go to the University of Texas in Austin, where his cousin Gage, who was two years older than us, was currently studying. I’d heard a lot about Gage and his family from Ty over the years, since they were his only cousins, and I was genuinely happy he was going. Gage was like a brother to him and Tyler hadn’t seen him in a few years, so their sharing an apartment would be good for Ty. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do when Tyler left; the only thing I did know was that I was getting away from the house I grew up in. I just had to make it another month until I turned eighteen and then I was gone. But Tyler, being Tyler, made my future plans for me. He crawled through my window, told me to pack my bag, and just before he could haul me off to his Jeep, he told Mom and Jeff exactly what he thought of them. I didn’t have time to worry about the consequences of his telling them off, because before I knew it we were on the freeway and headed for Texas. We made the trip in just over a day, and now, after being here long enough to unpack his Jeep and shower separately, we were headed to some lake for a party to meet up with Gage and his friends.
