I was like him.

“I’m him,” I muttered.

“No, Blaise. You’re not.” Stephen shook his head, hissing from the pain. “You thought I was him, and you defended yourself. I shouldn’t have touched you. I should’ve read the signs, and I didn’t. I am sorry.”

No. I pushed him away, scooting over at the same time. “That’s fucked up. I just beat your ass, and you’re apologizing to me?”

“Blaise.” He started for me again.

I scooted farther.

It never occurred to me to get up, to stand to my feet.

He kept moving over, and I kept scooting away, kept shaking my head.

I stopped when I hit a corner and couldn’t go any farther.

He kept coming, though.

Finally, I folded in on myself, cowering, trying to hide.

I couldn’t hide.

I couldn’t disappear.

“Blaise.”

He was still here. Why wouldn’t the fucker go away?

“Blaise, you’ve been through trauma.”

He was still touching me, a hand to my head.

I wanted to shove him off, kick him away, but I didn’t have it in me. I was done. The fight was gone.

He could beat me now, and I wouldn’t raise a finger against him.

I heard crying —my mom. I recognized her voice.

And where was I?

Not a closet, or a room at the New York apartment.

I was in my apartment.

I was under the kitchen table, backed into the corner between the wall and the fridge.

Shit. How had I gotten in here?

“Blaise.” Stephen had crawled under the table with me.

“What are you doing under here?” My voice didn’t sound like mine. It was different, a stranger’s. I didn’t like it, instantly hating what I heard in my tone.

Weakness.

Stephen stared at me a second. “You came under here, so I did too.”

“Why?”

That shit didn’t make sense to me.

“Because you’re my son.” He said this like it made perfect sense. “Because you’re hurting, and I’ll heal from this—and I know you’ll never do it again—but you’re still hurting. Blaise.” His hand went to my ankle. “You need to see a counselor for what you’ve been through.”

“I have.” None worked. They all twisted shit so it seemed like my fault.

He gave me a look like he knew things about me I didn’t, and I hated that too. Who gave him that right?

“You saw therapists he paid for. They weren’t real professionals. It will help you, I promise.”

Promises meant nothing to me. They were just words, just something meant to manipulate, give you hope, and they were a weapon to take that hope away.

Promises could crush you, if you let them.

“No, thank you.”

“How about this?” His tone grew more assertive. “You see a therapist or—”

My nostrils flared. This was more like it.

“Or what?” I taunted. “You’re going to press charges?” I felt a cruel smile on my face. I felt it inside of me. “Surprised it took you this long to get to the threats.” Threats I understood. They’re what made the world go ’round.

Stephen seemed at a loss for a beat. Then his shoulders fell. His jaw slackened. He looked defeated. He looked sad. “I was going to say, if you don’t get help, you’ll do this to someone else. You could do this to Aspen.”

I felt a jolt.

The world spun.

Direct hit.

The fu—no. I was the fuck.

He was right.

Dear God.

I couldn’t hurt Aspen. Ever.

He nodded, his shoulders lifting. “That got in. Good.” He blinked back tears. “Good.” He crawled out from under the table.

I stayed, because if I could’ve, I would’ve stayed under that table forever.

I heard him cross the room and tell my mother, “I got to him.”

Whatever that meant.

48

Aspen

My phone woke me, and it took me a second to realize the time.

It was four in the morning.

Shit.

Blaise calling.

He hadn’t called last evening, and we always did a video call. I looked forward to it every day, but he’d texted saying he’d call me later because something had happened.

My heart raced as I grabbed my phone and scooted up in bed. “Hello?”

“Hey.”

Oh God.

He didn’t sound good.

“What happened?”

He was silent a second.

“Blaise?”

His voice was strained, so strained. “I beat the shit out of Stephen today.”

“What?” I hadn’t heard that right.

I was about to laugh. What kind of joke was this?

But then he said it again, dull this time, as if he flipped a switch and turned himself off. He sounded like a robot.

“I beat the shit out of him.”

I’d heard right. This wasn’t a prank. “Are you—”

“I’m not going to bullshit you. I’m laying this out clearly. When you come here, I don’t think we should see each other.”

My mouth fell open.

I felt as if he had beat the shit out of me, a complete sucker punch to my throat.

I couldn’t—what?!

He continued, as if this was a business call, as if he was telling me my services were no longer needed. “I was having a flashback from Griffith, and Stephen touched my arm. I rounded on him until he was bleeding on the floor. Then I crawled under a fucking table and tried to hide.”

Now I heard emotion. I sagged with relief. He wasn’t totally gone.

My boy was still in there.

“I’m fucked up, Aspen. I—if I did that to him, I could do that to you. What if I’m in a flashback and you touch me? That can’t happen. If something happened to you—” He broke off for a moment. “I’d never get over that. Nothing can hurt you, especially me. We can’t—I gotta get myself together. I’m dangerous right now.”

“Oh.” My heart was still beating, but it was in someone else’s hands. His hands. “Blaise.”

“I miss you so much, so fucking much, but this shit in my head—I have to get it out of me. I can’t hurt you, ever.”

Damn him.

Damn him for making me love him even more.

“You’re going to therapy?” I asked.

“I’m going to, yeah. Mom and Stephen left earlier. I’m at the apartment, and I have practice in an hour. I’ve not slept all night. I knew what I needed to do, but it’s taken me all night to get the courage up to call you.”

“Babe.”

He laughed. “Guys don’t like being called that.”

“Shut up.”

He sighed. “I deserve that.”

I wasn’t going to cry.

I wasn’t.

I wasn’t…I was crying.

Dammit.

I tried to keep the tears out of my voice. “Are you breaking up with me?”

He fell silent for a minute. “I don’t want to.” Another beat. “But that’s selfish, isn’t it?” His voice sounded stronger, but still bleak, if that was possible. “To keep you tied to me when I can’t be around you? You’re coming to college, and I know you’re excited. That’s not fair to you. I’d be holding you back.”

Okay.

I heard him, and he’d made up his mind.

So okay.

I’d gone without him for a month.

I could handle another month, and that’s all I would give him—except he didn’t know that.

“You don’t see anyone else.”

“What?”

I was firm on this. “You don’t fuck anyone else. You see a therapist, and that’s it.”

“That’s it? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you breaking up with me to fix yourself. So I’m giving you parameters. You cannot fuck anyone else. Got that?”

He was quiet again, then, “Yeah. No problem.”

“You need to fuck, you call me.”

“What?”

I was on my knees now, and almost yelling. “Agree to that!”

“Fine. Yes. If I need to fuck, I’ll call you. But doesn’t that—”

“Agree to that!”

“Yes! I agree. If I want sex, I’ll call you. Of course I’ll call you. I’ll want to call you all the time. This—I don’t want to do this, but I can’t risk hurting you.”

“You go to soccer and you kick ass at soccer, and then you have therapy sessions. Every day.”

“Every day?!” His voice shrank to a whisper.

“Every day. You want to break up with me to get fixed? Then you fix yourself. Every single day. I am not fucking around with this. I want you. I love you. I am already aching for you, and then you wake me up and say this to me? If you’re breaking up with me for this, you do the work. Soccer and then therapy.” I barked orders into the phone like a drill sergeant. “Intensive therapy. Get it done, and then I will make everything right for you again. You got me?”

He was silent.

“You got me?!”

“I want to fuck you so bad right now.”

I closed my eyes and fell forward, my head hitting the bed. “Agh.”

“Can we video chat? Right now?”