Around the room, everything is the same. Dirty dishes piled up. A half-eaten apple turning brown on the counter. A stack of mismatched shoes in the corner near the door. The same scene, another day, but I left this house one person last August and I’m sitting here someone new, someone changed, and it’s time not to be afraid anymore.
Across the kitchen on the island is my phone, because in truth, my parents assume me to be the good little dog. They’re convinced I’ll obey.
Just like Clara expects me to forever keep her secret.
Just like Kyle expects me to write his papers.
But there is one person who expected the unexpected from me and the only time I noticed disappointment on his face was when I cowered like a sheep. And I had to take a moment to figure out I’m not ashamed of him. It’s him who should be ashamed of me.
I’ve put Razor in an unfair position. He introduced me to his world. Welcomed me with open arms. Made me feel like I belonged and I’ve asked him to keep a secret when doing so is killing him. And I told him that we would be over... I did the same exact thing to him that Clara did to me and that’s not okay. No part of it is okay.
I cross the kitchen, and when I pick up my cell, it feels epically heavy. My heart picks up pace and dizziness causes me to lean against the counter. I can do this. I can end this nightmare and Razor won’t have to choose between me and keeping my secret.
With a swipe of my finger, my phone powers on. I never knew that being fearless could be so terrifying.
RAZOR
I WISH I HAD Breanna’s mind. If I did, maybe I could sort through the possible solutions faster. Find the way to protect her without risking that picture going live on the internet. Find a way to convince her parents to let her stay. But I don’t have her mind. I have mine and I can’t think of an answer that will work.
The board is here. All but Pigpen inside the house. He’s sitting on the railing on the opposite end of the porch from me, staring. Just staring.
It’s an eerie sensation that my mother’s cramped house is filled with so many men and there’s hardly a sound. It’s like everyone has their guns loaded, are lying in a ditch, watching a hill, and they’re waiting for someone to yell “charge.”
Messed-up part? They’re waiting on me.
I’m in the same place as when Rebecca left with Breanna—my left shoulder leaning against the corner post on the front porch. I’m putting off the inevitable. As though if I remain in the same spot I was in the last time I saw her, I won’t cause myself pain.
“There’s a Bible story.” Pigpen breaks the silence. “About this guy named Jacob and how he wrestled with God. Have you heard it before?”
I blink a no.
“The two of them went at it all night,” he says. “Think about it—you’re Jacob and he’s God and you’re evenly matched enough that you fight for hours. Jacob had to believe he was kicking ass. Thinking he was big and bad enough to do it on his own, but do you know what happened?”
It’s a biblical story, so nothing good. “A plague? Pillars of salt? Brimstone and fire?”
“God touched him.” Pigpen points one finger in the air. “And with that one touch, he dislocates Jacob’s hip. One touch and it was over.”
God smashed him like a bug. I crushed fireflies. Mom’s dead. Breanna’s floundering. And Pigpen wants to spin a story about how shit happens. “Working on a seminary degree?”
A smile stretches across his face. “Naw, but we had a chaplain over in Afghanistan. Cool son of a bitch. And he’d do this. Out of nowhere tell a story that would put it in perspective.”
“Got a point?”
The grin slips off his face. I hate it when he goes dead serious. It usually means bad shit is about to go down. “God could have flattened Jacob, but he didn’t. God knew that Jacob was stubborn, was prideful, so he let the poor bastard wear himself out before God does what he does—prove to Jacob he’s nothing compared to God.”
“Still waiting on that point.”
He shrugs
. “I was thinking you look like I expected Jacob would have after he realized he was fighting something bigger than he was, and I wonder, like Jacob, how long it’s going to take you to figure it out that you don’t have to be fighting alone.”
Sometimes, I hate this guy. Especially when he makes sense. “I’m in love with her.”
“Figured,” he says. “Is she making you choose between us and her?”
“She’s making me choose between keeping her safe or keeping her.”
“That fucking sucks.”