He looked right at me. His gaze so intense. I refused to look away.
Finally, he broke the stare. "I just found out I have a sister," he said out of nowhere.
"What? How?" Clearly I was confused. And shocked. But mostly confused.
His thumb came up to straighten the lines between my brows.
"I'm adopted," he informed.
"WHAT?! And you just found out?" I almost yelled.
His hand covered my mouth, and then he chuckled. "No, Amanda. I knew. It happened when I was seven. So...it's not a big deal. But she's been looking for me. I guess she found me."
I settled my frantic heart. "I'm confused," I told him, pouting a little.
"Yeah," he agreed, looking away. "Honestly, so am I."
He kissed me once, then took his shirt off and made a move to lie back in bed. I followed him. Then he positioned us so his arm was under my head and I was lying sideways with my head resting on his chest.
He looked up at the ceiling. I looked up at him.
Then he spoke. "My birth parents were assholes, Amanda. And I'm not talking just neglectful assholes. I'm talking abusive, drugged up, fucked up, assholes."
I gasped.
He continued. "When I was seven, my dad beat me so bad, that even in her messed up state, my mom knew enough to take me to hospital."
"Oh my God," I breathed out.
His hand went under my top, rubbing slow circles into my back. Like he needed to comfort me.
"You remember my dad, the one you kind of met that night?"
I nodded. "The one Mom works for?"
"Yeah," I could sense his smile. "He was my doctor when she brought me in. My birth parents never came back for me, so he adopted me."
I tried to keep my breathing even. I tried to hold back the tears. I tried so damn hard to hide the fact that my heart was breaking.
"Anyway." He spoke so casually, seemingly unaffected. "Apparently the asshole wasn't just a dick to me, but to his wife too, because he had a kid with another woman. Apparently she's my age. He knew about her. Used to visit her all the time. I guess he loved her—used me as a punching bag."
I wiped my tears on his chest. I sniffed once. "Logan," I managed to get out through the giant lump in my throat. "I'm so sorry."
He adjusted us so I was completely on top of him. His hand on my back kept circling. His other hand played with my hair.
"How did you find out?"
"Jake's dad. He's um, my lawyer—kind of. She—my sister—she's been looking for me. It's a long story."
Silence filled the room while I tried to imagine his life. "Do you remember it?" I asked.
"Remember what?" he answered, his voice low and scratchy.
"That day. When he—" I looked up and into his eyes. "When he hurt you. Do you remember why? Or how?"
He swallowed hard, his eyes drifting shut. He nodded his head once. "I remember the phone ringing and my mom answering. Straight away she was glaring at me. I tried to remember what I could have done that made someone call her. I couldn't think of anything. I mean, even as a kid I understood that whomever she was speaking to, it was about me. I remember her hanging up and then yelling at me, saying that Dad was going to be pissed. She only hit me once across the face before going for her smokes. I knew straight away what was going to happen. I remember trying so hard not to cry. Crying only made them madder. The second she lit her cigarette I tried to run, but she cornered me. I remember pissing my pants." His voice broke. He paused to clear his throat, and then inhaled a huge breath before letting it out in a rush.
I had my mouth on his collarbone, letting the tears fall silently. I could feel my body shaking. He must've been able to feel my tears soaking his skin. But he never stopped the movements of his hands. Not once. The circular motions on my back, the stroking of my hair. All of it. It never stopped. He was comforting me. And I couldn't do a damn thing to comfort him.
"She always put it out where no one could see. Her favorite spot was under my arms. She always covered my mouth with her hand so I couldn't scream. So no one could hear my cries."
I couldn't help it. I let it out—the sob that overtook me.
"Shh," he soothed.
How? How could he be so calm?
"Then she locked me in this tiny cupboard for hours. No food. No drink. Sitting there crying quietly in my own piss and shit. Those were the worst times, because I never knew how long it would be until someone came for me. I swear sometimes it was days. It felt like fucking days." His words end on a whisper.
"You can stop. You don't have to keep going. I'm sorry," I frantically shook my head. I didn’t know that I could take anymore. But he didn't stop. He just kept going. I didn’t know if it was for me, or for him. "I remember hearing his voice. It always scared me you know? Even when he wasn't angry. It was this deep fucking rumble. I remember thinking that maybe he was a monster. And not really my dad. Some nights I'd fall asleep and dream that it was true. That my real dad was out there, and that this fake dad was a monster. And one day someone would kill him. Could you imagine?" He laughed once. "A little kid hoping to hell that someone would kill his dad. What the hell was wrong with me?"
Nothing. Nothing was wrong with him. I want nothing more right now than to kill him myself.
"He opened the cupboard. The first thing I saw was his fist. It was already clenched. His face was red. For months afterwards, whenever I closed my eyes I saw his face. It was the cause of all my nightmares. This fucking monster. The first punch was to my face. The next few to my ribs. I knew it was going to be bad, because normally he spoke to me while he did it. The son of a bitch would ask if he was hurting me, while he was hurting me. He'd laugh while I screamed. But this time—he didn't say shit. Just kept with the punches, the kicks, until I was a ball on the floor. I remember being on my hands and knees. He grabbed my hair in his hands. I was spitting blood, barely conscious. Then he lifted my head and squatted to meet my eyes. He said 'Your bruises aren't for show and tell you little cunt.'"
I flinched as he repeated the words.
He continued, “And then he stood up, and kicked my head with his steel cap boots. That's when it went dark. That's all I remember."
Oh my God. "Logan," I said again. I didn't know what else to say. "Stop. Please. I can't. I'm so sorry. I just can't." I was all out crying. I tried to muffle the sound with his neck. But it didn't work.
"Shh," he said. But he was distracted. "It's okay."
"How is it okay?" I lifted my head, looking into his eyes. His green eyes so clear of any emotion.
"Because," he said, kissing me softly. "It's over. We move on, right?"
I nodded. I don't know why I did. Because it wasn't. It wasn't okay at all.
Then I felt his hands on my back stop moving. His fingers in my hair froze. I looked up at him.
Finally, he broke the stare. "I just found out I have a sister," he said out of nowhere.
"What? How?" Clearly I was confused. And shocked. But mostly confused.
His thumb came up to straighten the lines between my brows.
"I'm adopted," he informed.
"WHAT?! And you just found out?" I almost yelled.
His hand covered my mouth, and then he chuckled. "No, Amanda. I knew. It happened when I was seven. So...it's not a big deal. But she's been looking for me. I guess she found me."
I settled my frantic heart. "I'm confused," I told him, pouting a little.
"Yeah," he agreed, looking away. "Honestly, so am I."
He kissed me once, then took his shirt off and made a move to lie back in bed. I followed him. Then he positioned us so his arm was under my head and I was lying sideways with my head resting on his chest.
He looked up at the ceiling. I looked up at him.
Then he spoke. "My birth parents were assholes, Amanda. And I'm not talking just neglectful assholes. I'm talking abusive, drugged up, fucked up, assholes."
I gasped.
He continued. "When I was seven, my dad beat me so bad, that even in her messed up state, my mom knew enough to take me to hospital."
"Oh my God," I breathed out.
His hand went under my top, rubbing slow circles into my back. Like he needed to comfort me.
"You remember my dad, the one you kind of met that night?"
I nodded. "The one Mom works for?"
"Yeah," I could sense his smile. "He was my doctor when she brought me in. My birth parents never came back for me, so he adopted me."
I tried to keep my breathing even. I tried to hold back the tears. I tried so damn hard to hide the fact that my heart was breaking.
"Anyway." He spoke so casually, seemingly unaffected. "Apparently the asshole wasn't just a dick to me, but to his wife too, because he had a kid with another woman. Apparently she's my age. He knew about her. Used to visit her all the time. I guess he loved her—used me as a punching bag."
I wiped my tears on his chest. I sniffed once. "Logan," I managed to get out through the giant lump in my throat. "I'm so sorry."
He adjusted us so I was completely on top of him. His hand on my back kept circling. His other hand played with my hair.
"How did you find out?"
"Jake's dad. He's um, my lawyer—kind of. She—my sister—she's been looking for me. It's a long story."
Silence filled the room while I tried to imagine his life. "Do you remember it?" I asked.
"Remember what?" he answered, his voice low and scratchy.
"That day. When he—" I looked up and into his eyes. "When he hurt you. Do you remember why? Or how?"
He swallowed hard, his eyes drifting shut. He nodded his head once. "I remember the phone ringing and my mom answering. Straight away she was glaring at me. I tried to remember what I could have done that made someone call her. I couldn't think of anything. I mean, even as a kid I understood that whomever she was speaking to, it was about me. I remember her hanging up and then yelling at me, saying that Dad was going to be pissed. She only hit me once across the face before going for her smokes. I knew straight away what was going to happen. I remember trying so hard not to cry. Crying only made them madder. The second she lit her cigarette I tried to run, but she cornered me. I remember pissing my pants." His voice broke. He paused to clear his throat, and then inhaled a huge breath before letting it out in a rush.
I had my mouth on his collarbone, letting the tears fall silently. I could feel my body shaking. He must've been able to feel my tears soaking his skin. But he never stopped the movements of his hands. Not once. The circular motions on my back, the stroking of my hair. All of it. It never stopped. He was comforting me. And I couldn't do a damn thing to comfort him.
"She always put it out where no one could see. Her favorite spot was under my arms. She always covered my mouth with her hand so I couldn't scream. So no one could hear my cries."
I couldn't help it. I let it out—the sob that overtook me.
"Shh," he soothed.
How? How could he be so calm?
"Then she locked me in this tiny cupboard for hours. No food. No drink. Sitting there crying quietly in my own piss and shit. Those were the worst times, because I never knew how long it would be until someone came for me. I swear sometimes it was days. It felt like fucking days." His words end on a whisper.
"You can stop. You don't have to keep going. I'm sorry," I frantically shook my head. I didn’t know that I could take anymore. But he didn't stop. He just kept going. I didn’t know if it was for me, or for him. "I remember hearing his voice. It always scared me you know? Even when he wasn't angry. It was this deep fucking rumble. I remember thinking that maybe he was a monster. And not really my dad. Some nights I'd fall asleep and dream that it was true. That my real dad was out there, and that this fake dad was a monster. And one day someone would kill him. Could you imagine?" He laughed once. "A little kid hoping to hell that someone would kill his dad. What the hell was wrong with me?"
Nothing. Nothing was wrong with him. I want nothing more right now than to kill him myself.
"He opened the cupboard. The first thing I saw was his fist. It was already clenched. His face was red. For months afterwards, whenever I closed my eyes I saw his face. It was the cause of all my nightmares. This fucking monster. The first punch was to my face. The next few to my ribs. I knew it was going to be bad, because normally he spoke to me while he did it. The son of a bitch would ask if he was hurting me, while he was hurting me. He'd laugh while I screamed. But this time—he didn't say shit. Just kept with the punches, the kicks, until I was a ball on the floor. I remember being on my hands and knees. He grabbed my hair in his hands. I was spitting blood, barely conscious. Then he lifted my head and squatted to meet my eyes. He said 'Your bruises aren't for show and tell you little cunt.'"
I flinched as he repeated the words.
He continued, “And then he stood up, and kicked my head with his steel cap boots. That's when it went dark. That's all I remember."
Oh my God. "Logan," I said again. I didn't know what else to say. "Stop. Please. I can't. I'm so sorry. I just can't." I was all out crying. I tried to muffle the sound with his neck. But it didn't work.
"Shh," he said. But he was distracted. "It's okay."
"How is it okay?" I lifted my head, looking into his eyes. His green eyes so clear of any emotion.
"Because," he said, kissing me softly. "It's over. We move on, right?"
I nodded. I don't know why I did. Because it wasn't. It wasn't okay at all.
Then I felt his hands on my back stop moving. His fingers in my hair froze. I looked up at him.
