There he holds me against his chest. And I can sense how paralyzed he is with indecision. He has no clue what to do, but he also has no idea that this is all I need.
When my tears have stopped and my face feels raw and swollen, he gently pulls me away from his chest. Instead of speaking, he moves toward the large claw-foot tub and turns on the faucet, pouring lavender-scented bubbles under the stream of water and checking the temperature.
Then he delicately pulls me toward the tub and sits on the edge as he carefully pulls my dress over my head. And since my panties are still in his pocket, I’m fully naked before him.
His hands are on my hips, and his eyes are on my face. The quiet moment stretches wordlessly before he leads me to the water, holding my hand as I climb in, sinking quickly under the bubbles like it’s my safe haven.
He disappears for a moment, coming back with a washcloth. Instead of handing it to me, he dips it under the suds and uses it to gently wipe the tearstains from my cheeks.
Then he squeezes the water over my head, dousing my hair with it.
And I just lie there, letting him dote on me, feeling entirely at peace because I can’t remember the last time anyone ever took care of me. And I might still be angry at him, but it’s impossible to tear myself away from his attention.
When his hand sinks under the surface, gently cleaning every inch of me, I let my eyes close. He runs the washcloth over my chest and down my belly, over my hips and across the length of each leg. Even giving his attention to each of my toes on both feet.
As his hand travels up the inside of my leg, my eyes open.
But just as I expect him to touch me, he pulls his hand away.
He wrings out the washcloth and drapes it over the side of the
tub. Then he drops into a sitting position and rests his back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.
After a moment, he finally speaks.
“You were right. I fucking hate that you were right.”
“About what?” I whisper.
“I’ve followed the rules my entire life. I’ve always said what I’m supposed to say. I behaved the way I was supposed to behave. And now…I don’t know what the fuck to say half the time. I don’t even know who I am.”
“Adam, that’s not—” I whisper.
“I didn’t stick my neck out for my brother. When my father berated him, belittled him, humiliated him, I said nothing. Isaac was seventeen when he came out.” His voice trembles as he speaks. “He was just a kid, and I was a man.
Why didn’t I defend him? I could have helped him. I should have protected him, but I was too focused on being the good son.
“Then, the day before his eighteenth birthday, he just…
disappeared. It broke my mother’s heart, and I did nothing.”
These tears sting because these are the ones I don’t want to cry. I don’t like hearing Adam’s pain. I hate knowing that he’s beating himself up for something that is really his father’s fault.
“I’m sorry…”
“I’m afraid I can’t give you what you deserve, Sage.”
I don’t respond as I swallow down what feels like knives in my throat. But just the acknowledgment that Adam thinks about my needs, that we could be an us, stops me from speaking.
He turns toward me with bloodshot eyes.
“It was real, and you deserve a man who can admit that.”
“You just did,” I reply with a teary smile.
I can tell by the look in his eye that it’s not enough for him.
That he still doesn’t feel worthy.
Thirty
Adam
T he rain drums quietly against the window as I stare at the moon through the drizzle. I can’t sleep. Sage is breathing quietly next to me, cuddled under a heavy blanket, looking peaceful, and all I can think about is every cruel and depraved thing I’ve done to her.
I’m no better than him. And by him, I’m not even sure if I mean Brett or Truett, but it doesn’t matter. Because the three of us are the same.
My entire life, I considered myself a good man, and now I don’t even know what that means. I followed all the rules. I read the gospel. I lived the life my father and God set out for me to live and everyone I truly cared about ended up hurt. My mother. My brother. And her.
If I ruin my father’s life and go to Brett’s apartment now to beat the ever-loving shit out of him, does that make me the hero?
I won’t. And not because I don’t want to, because I really, really do. But I won’t because the honor and integrity that’s ingrained in my bones won’t let me. The same honor and integrity that has stopped me from every single thing I’ve wanted to do.
Perhaps we can never truly be good and protect the ones we love at the same time. Maybe it takes a bad man to truly keep them safe and happy.
I think about that night Truett hit my brother. The night he laid his hands on a scared seventeen-year-old boy and the way I watched from the hallway. I flinched. I tried to move, but I was a gust of wind against a mountain.
And I thought I was the righteous one.
Everything replays in my head, not just the last night with Isaac but the very minute I met Sage. I actually believed she was different than me as if I was sewn from a different cloth.
And she was somehow…less deserving. Who the fuck did I think I was?
She deserves the fucking sun. The moon. The stars.
And the thought actually makes me laugh. Out of every righteous, God-fearing person I know, this girl might be the best one I’ve ever met.
I left her with him. I got in my car and I drove away while she cried in the arms of her abuser. Because I did the right fucking thing. She got hurt because of me, and it could have been so much worse.
I’m no fucking hero.
And I never truly was. So why have I been acting like one?
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m out of bed, slipping on my jeans. Anger boils under the surface, growing hotter and hotter with every step I take, and it feels like I’m breathing life into a part of myself that I’ve been suffocating.
I don’t even fully know what I’m doing. I just let my instincts carry me without thinking about it too much.
Once I’m fully dressed, I glance back at Sage sleeping in her bed. I don’t stop to question if I’m doing the appropriate thing. I’ve done that enough in my life. This is the wrong fucking thing, and it’s the first thing that’s ever felt right.
Without another word, I slip out of her apartment.
The roads are quiet as I drive. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, painting the dark asphalt in reflecting light. My fists are tight around the steering wheel, and I let the buzzing heat of anger inside me sizzle and grow until it feels like I’m on fire.
I don’t mentally acknowledge where I’m going, but deep down, I know.
When I reach the club, I park in the same exact spot I was in earlier. And I wait.
There are a handful of cars still parked in the lot, and I have a good view of the back of the club from here. I know a
few things about Brett that I can count on for certain. He’s cocky, and he’s stupid. This means I know he’s going to walk out of here without security at some point, and I’ve got nothing but time.
While I wait, I don’t bother talking myself down or rethinking this situation. I let the simmer turn into a full boil.