“Yeah, I wondered,” Brody says.

Great, they’re all there. My breathing intensifies until I’m clutching my chest, on the verge of a panic attack.

“When Aria was eight, they were all travelling home after being out for the evening.”

No Jack, don’t.

“The tire blew on the car and it swerved off the road, flipped and wrapped around a tree.”

No. Please.

“Jesus,” Blade says, his voice sympathetic.

I don’t want his sympathy. Please, Jack, stop.

Why won’t my feet move?

“Nancy told me about it just after we met. She was beside herself but, she told me it was graphic. Aria’s father was thrown from the vehicle; he died instantly.”

Daddy. God. Stop.

My knees begin to shake and my body starts heaving.

“Nancy said . . .” His voice trembles. “She said Aria was in the back with her sister, Milly. She didn’t know at the time, but after intense therapy when Aria was younger, she found out Aria saw her sister die. And boys, when I say she saw her die, I mean she saw her die, graphically. Nancy told me she has suffered from what she saw ever since.”

I gasp for air, clutching my chest.

No. They need to stop talking about her. Right now.

“It was written on file that it was one of the most gruesome accidents for a long, long time. I won’t go into details, because it’s disturbing, but I can tell you what that girl saw that day will never leave her head, just like it has never left Nancy’s. She has nightmares. You need to go easy on her.”

“My God,” Blade breathes. “I didn’t . . .”

“No,” Jack cuts him off. “Not many people, except those who are close to them, know.”

I stumble out of the hall. I can’t breathe. The walls are closing in on me and my throat is closing tighter and tighter. I gasp for air as I fall into the living room. Jack turns suddenly and his eyes widen. I look pathetic; I know I do. My hands clutch my chest and tears are pouring down my cheeks. An unknown rage swirls in my belly. How dare he talk about them? How dare he?

“H-h-h-how dare you?” I scream.

Jack flinches. “Sweetheart, you were having nightmares . . .”

“You don’t have any right,” I screech, gasping for air.

“Dad, she’s panicking,” Blade says.

They take a step towards me but I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it.

“You don’t understand; none of you understand. It’s my place,” I bellow. “It’s my place to tell that story.”

My eyes turn to Blade and I see it . . . I see something I never wanted to see from him. Pity. Sympathy. He feels sorry for me. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me; I don’t want him to suddenly change because he’s too scared to be an asshole to me. I don’t want that. I never wanted that.

“I don’t tell people because of this,” I cry, waving my arms around. “I don’t want your fucking pity, god dammit.”

I turn and rush towards the door. “Don’t follow me,” I cry loudly, pained and broken.

I tumble out and trip down the steps, landing on my hands and knees at the bottom. Too much. It’s too much. I push to my feet quickly and stumble forward. Then I start running, I run so far and so fast that when I look back, I can’t even see the house anymore. I find an old, fallen tree and drop down, panting. Tears stream down my face. God dammit, when will this get easier?

It has to . . . right?

~*~*~*~

My head is dropped, so I don’t see him approach. I merely feel his presence as he sits down beside me. I expect it to be Jack, but when I open my eyes I’m shocked. It’s not Jack, or even Blade . . . it’s Brody. I blink a few times, quite shocked. He’s the last person I expected to find me. I don’t even know why he did. He barely speaks, barely shows emotion and yet here he is.

“I know how it feels.”

I turn to him, blinking my burning, dry eyes. I’ve cried so much there’s nothing left.

“Y-y-you do?”

He nods, and reaches into his jacket. He pulls out a flask and opens it. He takes a long drink, and then hands it to me. I do the same, swallowing down the burning liquid.

Then he tells me his story.

“I was dating a girl when I was eighteen. We’d been together for two years. I loved her, but she had a hard life. She suffered from severe depression because her mom died from cancer two years earlier. She put on a brave face, but she was a girl in need of some serious help. I stood by her side because I cared. When I turned eighteen, things started going south. She became distant and fought me more than she loved me.”

He stops and takes another sip. I do too.

“I was eighteen,” he mutters. “I didn’t have the maturity to handle it. I was young; I wanted to enjoy my life. She wouldn’t let me in. I’d stood by her for two long years but she wouldn’t let me in. She was sinking. I tried to get her help, I went to therapy with her, I lost all my friends to stand by her side—I did everything I could to make things better for her.”

I take another sip this time, because I have a feeling this story is going to be horrible.

“She pulled back and I couldn’t get through. She was partying hard, so hard I spent more time dragging her home vomiting than I did just enjoying her. She refused to let me in, and eventually I just couldn’t take it anymore. I broke it off with her. Things were rocky after that; she didn’t take it well. I still followed her, tried to help her, because I felt guilty.”