“Liesel,” Langston says in a warning tone.
I keep going.
“I knew what was going to happen, and I kept pushing, teasing. I was jealous that you kissed that girl. And I wanted to make you pay.”
Langston’s eyes close, as if remembering.
“Your father beat you, and it was my fault. I provoked him. I knew you got beat every time he was triggered, and I did nothing.”
I reach up and touch his face.
He opens his eyes.
When he looks at me, he knows why I told this story. Every time he gets hit, it reminds him of his father. And I’m still sorry for not saving him when we were kids.
“I’ll go sleep in the closet,” I say, moving to get up.
Langston grabs my wrist, stopping me.
“Liar.”
“What?”
“You’re a liar.”
I frown. “What part of that story was a lie? You lived that story with me. Every word was the truth.”
He removes the ice from his face and looks at me with both eyes.
“You did do something to stop him, Liesel.”
How does he know?
“You did something every time you could. You told my mother. You tried to calm him down or get him extra drunk so that he wouldn’t be able to hit me.”
He’s right. I did. I just never realized that Langston knew that.
“But that night—”
He puts a finger to my lips, getting me to stop.
“You took a beating for me.”
I freeze, and my eyes widen. How did he know?
He nods as if my reaction confirms it. He didn’t know for sure until this very moment.
Langston gets up out of bed and turns off the lights.
I feel him return a moment later.
He climbs into the bed, this time under the covers.
“Go to sleep, Liesel.”
This time he doesn’t give me a choice between the closet or his bed; he demands I sleep in his bed. For the first time since I slept next to him when we were kids, I want to share a bed with him.
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