I curl my toes. “Don’t tell me that’s your next move?”
He laughs. “Let’s say Iwasin a gang. You wouldn’t understand.” His voice... It’s too deep now, rumbling in my bones. “You wouldn’t know what it’s like to believe in something beyond yourself. To have no choice. You’re either in or out, and if you’re out, you’re as good as dead.”
“Like a church?” I say.
Or something worse? Something so powerful the only way out is to jump off a bridge?
He nods. “Exactly like that. Only the head ofthisorganization takes his marching orders from the devil. Believe it or not, it wasn’t always that way…” He stares off into the distance, glowering at a fragment of his past I can’t see.
I should say something nice. Something supportive, like a normal person would. That fake, superficial brand of sympathy the rest of the world seems to enjoy dishing out.
Instead...
I sigh and take a page out of his playbook. “So, you’d rather kill yourself than go to therapy?”
“Right.” He looks at me funny—a single jab from the corner of his eye. Then he tilts his head back, causing his hair to spill around his shoulders.
“If you really aren’t in some kind of gang, then you should get a haircut,” I tell him ruefully.
Father would certainly think so. He’d sneer down that perfect, Romanesque nose and declare as much. But somehow, it would seem more like a kind suggestion rather than an insult.
It was his superpower of sorts—kindness utilized as a weapon.
“You think you can givemeadvice on hair?” His fingers, heavy and rough, land on my head without warning. Heedless of how I flinch, he rakes through a curl. “Bullshit. And I suppose next you’re gonna advise me on my fashion choices?” He tugs on my sleeve. “You can keep that fucking advice.”
“You’re right.” I look down at my sweater.
Wearing it is starting to feel more painful than nostalgic. It’s like a part of Hale lives within the material. Haunting me. Hating me.
Blaming me.
“You’re right,” I repeat.
I don’t think the indecency through as I curl my fingers around the hem of my shirt. I just lift, wrenching it over my head. The thin undershirt I have on beneath feels like tissue paper, unable to withstand his scrutiny.
He doesn’t say a word to stop me, though. He watches me crumble the colorful garment into a ball and throw it as hard as I can.
My eyes are burning again, too fiercely to soothe by just blinking. I smash my palms over them, physically shoving back anything that might fall. One second. Two. It’s enough for now. I don’t feel anything on my face but warm bursts of air, each punctuated by a hollow laugh.
“Look at me,” he dares.
“No.”A part of me wants to stick out my tongue. Deny him. Rebel.
I’m so tired of pretending to be good, old Frey. The girl who doesn’t blink when you say boo. The girl who always minds herp’s and q’s.
The girl who knows her father’s dirty little secrets without spilling a word.
I can’t be her again.
But...
“Look at me.”
There’s something about his voice. It’s too soft. If stone talked, it would sound like him, deceptively quiet, but with enough strength in every syllable to hurt. Move mountains. Make me listen.
“Come on.Lookat me.”
I spread my fingers apart. From this angle, a shadow falls over his face, rendering it unreadable. Just haunting eyes and a wistful frown. Even so, there is a strange beauty hidden within the gruff features. Or maybe I’m fooling myself simply because he isn’t scolding me?