The Things We Can't Change Part Three: The Healing

The Things

We Can’t

Change

The Healing

Kassandra Kush

Dedication

For Malene, Jackie, Tami,

and anyone else that this book

has touched or helped.

Thank you for reading, and

thank you for your words

of encouragement.

This one is for you.

Kassandra M. Kush

Copyright © 2013

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition 2015

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

The information in this book is distributed on an as is basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design © Regina Wamba

Mae I Design

Models: Kelly Kush & Kate Luzniak

ALSO BY KASSANDRA KUSH

The Fallen Chronicles

Guardian

Protector

Messenger

The Things We Can’t Change Series

The Prologue

The Struggle

The Healing

The Love Story

The Epilogue

The Lightwood Legacy

The Summer I Gave Up Boys

The Summer I Gave Up Boys: Isaiah’s Story

Coming Soon:

The Fallen Chronicles Book Four: Light Bringer

The Summer I Got Back with Cooper Grace

A The Things We Can’t Change Novel

Staring at the Stars

Shatterproof

Ezekiel

42

I’m just rolling over to avoid a patch of sunlight hitting my eyes when I find myself roughly grabbed around the bicep and hauled out of bed. I crash to the floor, blankets and all, squirming and cussing as I try and fail to break my fall.

What the hell, Dad? I shout, fighting to get out of the sheets.

You should have left for the Parkers fifteen minutes ago, my dad says flatly. He’s standing over me, hands on his hips, his face expressionless.

"Ian Parker died last week, Dad," I say from the floor.

And?

I cease struggling, since I can’t seem to make headway on the sheets that are doing their best to keep me captive, and just look at my dad. If he’s dead, I say slowly, wondering if I’ll have to spell it out for him, then I doubt anyone cares if I finish my punishment. I doubt they want me hanging around period.

The way my dad’s face contorts tells me I ought to have kept all my rationale to myself.

Get up off that floor and get your ass over to the Parkers, he hisses. Ian Parker was generous enough to keep you out of jail and I’ll be damned if I allow you to waste that chance. If you don’t get over there and keep on working off your debt to them, I’ll turn you in. A deal is a deal, even if he died.

I can only stare up at my dad, blinking in shock. You’d turn me in. I say it flatly, no emotion, not a question, because I already know. He’d do it, actually do it. Turn in his only son for some stupid incident that involved nothing more than a cleanable brick wall of a house and a can of spray paint.

We continue to stare at each other, until my dad finally says, You have ten minutes to get downstairs. Then he turns and leaves the room.

I want to punch the floor, shout and swear out my frustration, but I also don’t want my dad to come back in here. So I bury the rage and feelings just like always and meticulously work my way out of the blankets. I toss on a pair of gym shorts and an old t-shirt and am downstairs in five minutes, not ten.

I enter the kitchen to grab some food, anything I can eat while I walk to the Parkers’ house. My dad is standing in front of the coffee pot, studiously watching it brew coffee and ignoring me. He doesn’t say a word as I grab a banana and a package of Pop-Tarts and leave the house.

I wolf everything down as I head down Grandview Avenue toward Fifth and stand waiting for a light to change, heart racing as I look over the crosswalk. I can’t ever look at the damn things the same way ever again. As a kid, a crosswalk is supposed to be a safe zone. The white figure tells you that you can walk and if you’re in those white lines, nothing can touch you. How wrong life is.

I pull my gaze away from the white lines and focus instead on the beater car that is waiting right next to me at the red light. It’s a billion-year old Cadillac, bouncing up and down due to the bass system, which is probably worth more than the car at this point. Payphone by Maroon 5 is blaring out at a level that everyone in Grandview can probably hear.

I know it’s hard to remember the people we used to be, it’s even harder to picture that you’re not here next to me.

Different kind of love, same principle. I feel like Cindy has been dead for years already, not just three months. It seems the person I was before her death—someone who still buried their emotions but at least allowed himself to feel something, for Cindy—is a dim memory. I can’t remember who I was before I came down to this: an honest-to-goodness delinquent, working his way out of juvie, associating with people who would actually try and steal cars and shoot people.

Cameron didn’t shoot Ian Parker, I tell myself firmly. I’d looked into his eyes, seen the truth there. I didn’t think he had the balls for it, anyway. Something I’d noticed was that he was very good at making other people do the illegal things, instead of committing the crime himself. This was because then he couldn’t actually be accused of the crime, and because I think he would chicken out when it came right down to it.

I shove all these thoughts away because they’re making me uncomfortable and after all, it’s the one thing that I do best. The light turns green, the little pedestrian lights up, and both the car and I head across the street. The Caddy drives away while I turn and go down Fifth toward Riverside, but I swear I can hear the damn song the whole way to the Parker house.

If happy ever after did exist, I would still be holding you like this, all these fairy tales are full of shit, one more fucking love song I’ll be sick.

Amen, Adam, I mutter as I ascend the driveway. I may be only seventeen, but I sure as hell know one thing; happy ever afters and fairy tales don’t exist. If they did, Cindy would still be alive. My mom would still be around. There’s no such thing as a happy ending.

I circle into the backyard, not bothering to go through the house and tell anyone that I’m here. I know what needs done. I just grab a shovel from the shed and get to work, attacking the ground, trying to work the feelings out of me, feel them exit my body as sweat and, though I’d never tell anyone, tears.

If this was a fairy tale, Cindy would come back to life. But as I go on living without her, I’m realizing that her death is something I can’t ever change. And it’s tearing me apart.

Evangeline

43

She almost catches me.

It’s early in the morning, for summer time, at least, and I’m in my dad’s office. I’ve been sleeping in there ever since the funeral a few days ago, waking up with cramps in my lower back and neck from the small, uncomfortable leather couch. Most of the time I’m not even aware of falling asleep.

I just sit there most nights, curled up in a blanket with the small television on but not watching it, unable to close my eyes and see visions of my dad, covered in blood or lying in the coffin. My last memories of him, and they’re not anything I wish to see. Next thing I know, I’m waking up in the middle of the day, since I stay up well past four or five in the morning.

For the past couple days I’ve been under control, tightly laced, feet and mind firmly planted onto the earth. This morning though, I wake up to an onslaught of emotions trying to tear at me, claw me down and my mind tries to escape. I tell myself no, at first. I try just pulling my hair, rake my nails across my skin and I even listen to Tony’s message. None of it helps.

And so I’m sitting down behind my dad’s desk once again, preparing to do something I told myself I’d never do again. The letter opener—or, might as well be correct, knife—is centered directly in front of me. The sleeve of my left arm is pulled all the way up past my elbow and I can see the long gash from last time, finally beginning to scab over.

It’s deep and still twinges when I move, but the pain isn’t enough to keep me grounded and I’m finally giving in to the urge to do it again. For just a little while, I felt clean, as though some of the pressure of all that black, poisoned blood was eased by letting some of it out. But just like always, the feeling returns, and I have to go to desperate measures to get some relief once again. After the mess from last time, I had grabbed some gauze from my dad’s old first aid kit and stuffed it into the desk drawer, just in case there was another time. Even though while I was doing it, I was swearing to myself there wouldn’t be.

And yet here I am again, knife meticulously positioned in front of me, gauze to my right, sleeve of my left arm pulled back, head threatening to float away. I’m reaching out for the knife and have barely brushed it with my fingertips when Clarissa bursts into the office without warning.

I swallow back a squeak of surprise and fright and swipe my hand across the desk, the gauze and knife hitting the carpeted floor with dull thuds. Clarissa doesn’t even notice my jerky movements or shock as she flies across the room to the window behind the desk, which faces the backyard.

What is he doing here? She’s practically screeching and I have to resist the urge to cover my ears.

What is who doing where? I ask, quickly taking advantage of her turned back and kicking both the knife and the gauze underneath the desk. I pull my sleeve down as well and then advance on the window.

That boy! The delinquent that your father hired, Clarissa sneers.

I come to her side at the window and look out over the backyard. My breath catches in my throat as I easily recognize Zeke’s tall form. He’s working on the gazebo, just as he has the last three weeks. As though nothing has changed. I didn’t expect him to come back; it had actually never occurred to me.

But there he is, attacking the ground with a shovel. I can tell by his quick, jerky movements that he’s angry, and I’m pretty sure he’s not here entirely by choice. I don’t care. At the sight of him, my heartbeat quickens, and not in a bad way.

I lift a hand to the glass, as though touching his figure through it will allow me to actually touch Zeke. I can’t hold back a small smile, even though I haven’t the slightest idea why or where it comes from. Every time Zeke and I talk, we argue and take shots at each other.

He shouldn’t be here, Clarissa says decisively. He’ll murder us all in our beds.

He doesn’t come to the house while we’re sleeping, I point out dryly.

She glares at me. He’s a drug using, trigger-happy delinquent, whether it’s a spray paint nozzle or a gun. We don’t need that garden anyway. I hated the idea of putting it in. He’ll be happy to leave if I tell him we still won’t press charges.

She starts to turn away but stops when I say firmly and loudly, No.

Clarissa whirls on me, just as she always does when I try to defy her. I don’t know why she’s always resented me, though I suspect most of it is—was—jealousy over my relationship with my dad. I’ve always been daddy’s little girl. Or at least, I was.

I said, I don’t want him around my house, she snarls.

I keep my gaze steadily on her eyes, not blinking. It’s not your house, Clarissa. Remember?

She’s struck silent and I can tell by the way her fists are slowly clenching and unclenching that she’s livid. I know she would like nothing better than to strike back at me, return blow for blow, but she can’t and she knows it.

Clarissa got an incredibly generous monthly allowance and a trust from my dad’s will. She got his retirement fund, the vacation house on the ridge in Mackinac Island, the condo in Boston and the one in downtown Columbus right next to Grant Hospital. He even left her his Porsche.

I got my own trust with an allowance of two thousand dollars a month and full access when I turned twenty-one. I got a separate fund for education that would allow me to go to school anywhere in the world. But to Clarissa’s everlasting jealousy, I got the house and controlling interest of his business. And his vintage restored Dodge Challenger. Clarissa has to live with me until I turn eighteen and graduate, but she lives in my house, and it burns her every day, and has caused the tension between us to rise to boiling point.

With a low growl, she finally leaves the room, and I resume staring out the window at Zeke, magnetized by his figure. I realize suddenly that I am grounded back in my mind again, no threat of floating away. The feeling I’ve been seeking so desperately since my dad died, the one of safety and comfort, is here surrounding me and consuming me, with Zeke’s presence. Just like before, without my understanding why or how, I feel safe at the sight of him.

Without a second thought, I turn from the window and fly through the house. I pound down the stairs, loud enough that Clarissa yells at me from wherever she disappeared to, and then I’m flying out the back sliding door and leaping down the steps of the deck, so forcefully I almost fall down.

Finally I’m on the lawn and striding toward Zeke, still feeling odd twinges in my body, fighting the urge to float away. All I can think is that maybe he can help. Maybe, like before, that wonderful safe feeling that I always get around him, the one that reminds me of my dad, will be recreated. I’m desperate to feel it again, to stop drowning in a world where I feel I have nothing left to cling to.

I’ve just made it speaking distance from Zeke when he looks up and notices me. The change that comes over his face is immediate and instant. His features darken, his light eyes crackle with fury and his mouth twists in disgust. I stop walking abruptly, nervous by the sudden change in him.

Get the hell away from me, he snarls, and I’m pretty sure my jaw drops.

Wha-what? I sputter.

I said, leave me alone. He turns his back on me, resuming his ferocious attack on the dirt.

I stand there for a long moment and stare at his back, startled. Then everything seems to crash over me all at once, with the force of a tidal wave. Loneliness, depression, grief, that stupid sensation of floating away. There is no safety to be found here, not with Zeke. Not with anyone else, ever again.

My eyes fill up with tears but I don’t want Zeke to see me cry, not again, and so I turn and flee back the way I came. Fury is coursing through me now too. Anger at Zeke for turning me away and myself for thinking that he would comfort me, or something else equally as stupid. Fury with myself for being so weak that I can’t handle all of this myself, that I think I need someone else to lean on and make me feel safe, that I can’t do it on my own.

So I run all the way back to my dad’s office and deal with everything the only way that I’ve learned how. The only way that works. I retrieve the knife from underneath the desk, and this time, I don’t make any promises to myself that this is the last time.

Ezekiel

44

I go to the club for my shift in the dining room the next evening, shoulders and arms screaming at me for the abuse I put them through yesterday. I was working in a fit of blind rage, not caring about the quality of my work or who approached me or why; I just wanted the anger out of me, along with the grief. Since I can't paint anymore, it seems the only way to accomplish this is to work myself into exhaustion, until I'm much too tired to think or more importantly, to feel.

I'm already tired from today's work; the trees and bushes were finally delivered and I unloaded them, so my back and thighs are going to be sore tomorrow as well. Still, I walk into the club with as much swagger as I am able, and am immediately bombarded by Tessa.

Hey, Zeke, she chirps, and due to lack of rest and my general mood the past few days, her voice instantly rubs me the wrong way.

Hey, Tessa, I mutter back out of politeness. I’m saving all my energy and propriety to get through the next five hours of waiting tables, because I know it’s going to take all my remaining energy. It’s been a struggle lately to deal with all these rich people and overhear all their so-called problems.

I keep on walking past Tessa but she grabs my arm and forces me to stop or drag her along behind me.

What? I demand, my voice sharp.

Tessa lets go of my arm and adopts a mock hurt expression as she cross her arms. Oooh, it’s cranky Zeke that decided to come to work today? You know, you have mood swings worse than most hormonal girls.

Thanks for the info, anything else? I ask sarcastically.

Now she sidles in close, reaching out to take my hand and rub her thumb across my knuckles. I was just wondering if you wanted to hang out tonight after work. It’s been a couple days and I’m feeling… lonely. There’s a purr in her voice that tells me exactly what kind of ‘lonely’ she's talking about: lonely in the pants. I just can’t drum up the slightest interest for Tessa tonight.

I think she’s gorgeous and has a kick ass body, but I can usually only stomach being with her if I need to forget, to not feel. I don’t need that tonight. What I need is sleep, so I can continue my slave sentence and keep fending off Evie Parker’s knight-in-shining-armor looks. Luckily, I know just what to say to throw Tessa off the scent.

After shrugging her hand off, I continue for the kitchens. You didn’t seem so lonely when you and Kyle left work together this weekend. On Monday everyone was saying how you hooked up three times at one party.

I enjoy a private, rare smile at Tessa’s momentary open mouth expression and start for the kitchen again, but Tessa recovers faster than I’d like and runs after me again.

Zeke, that... that was nothing! You of all people should know how unreliable rumors can be!

Considering I heard it from Dominic, who was there, I wouldn’t doubt it too much, I say coolly. I go to push through the double doors, but Tessa grabs my arm again and holds me back. This time I’m tempted to just keep going and drag her.

She gives me a long hard look, and then slowly a smile blooms on her face. Are you jealous, Zeke? she asks, sounding positively thrilled at the idea.

I recoil, physically and mentally. I'm pretty sure that’s not what I said.

Sure sounds that way to me.

She still sounds thrilled and I know I have to give it to her straight, for both our sakes. The last thing I need or want right now is a girl clinging to me, and if I were to ever let someone in (fat chance) it sure as hell wouldn’t be someone like Tessa. I remember back to what Koby said about her the last day of school, how she's gotten around with everyone who works at the club. I don’t really care, I’m not jealous in the slightest, but I’m not going to keep hooking up with someone who is still sleeping with multiple other guys. I’m not stupid.

Look, Tessa, you're gorgeous and not annoying for the most part, but you aren’t an exclusive kind of girl. I'm not really into that. Kyle Miller’s leftovers are nothing I can get myself excited about. I don't do flings where one person might be picking up shit from four other people.

I meant to offend her, but she takes it totally the wrong way. Tessa sidles up to me, trying to look coy, but all I can think in that moment is how bland and boring her face looks, no emotions, no torment, no struggle. I wonder if she feels anything at all, ever, compared to Evie and me, who always seem to be feeling way too much. Fuck. Evie, again.

So what you're saying is, you’d like to be exclusive? Tessa asks, and my hackles rise in alarm.

"That is not what I’m saying at all, I bite out, frustrated because this isn’t at all going the way I want it to. I'm saying we're done for now. I’ve got some shit to deal with and you can hang out with Kyle until you leave for school, okay?"

Finally, finally, Tessa rears back as intended, looking wounded. Way to not sugarcoat it, huh, Quain? You really are an asshole sometimes, you know that?

I shrug. And you really get around.

She slaps me, but I was sort of expecting it. I'm feeling now, feeling irritation and annoyance that this is taking so long, that she’s trying to make it into something that it never was and definitely never could be.

I'm not saying we can’t hang out anymore, Tessa. I’m just saying I don’t want to hook up anymore, okay? Don’t let anyone ever say that I misled you.

Tessa's face flushes darkly and I know her pride is insulted but I really can't bring myself to care. I feel… Gross, icky inside my own skin. Suddenly the little bit of irritation she makes me feel seems like way too much, too much feeling and emotion for me to handle and I know I've got to stop seeing Tessa for now. Until I’m back under control, until I never think of Evie anymore, until I know the walls around me and my heart are back up as firmly as I want them to be.

You- Tessa begins, but the kitchen door bursts open just then and we’re confronted with Uncle Alex.

He’s glaring at us and I know he’s pissed off. When I glance at the clock on the wall, I see I’m now almost ten minutes late clocking in because Tessa won’t let me go.

What I’d like to know is why two of my servers aren’t in the dining room. Serving, Alex says in a sardonically polite voice as he crosses his arms. 

Sorry, I mutter, and quickly make my escape. I can feel Tessa’s eyes burning holes into my back as I go, and I reflect that I might have just dodged a bullet where she was concerned. Sometimes I catch that flash of light in Tessa’s eyes, the same one there in Cameron’s eyes, in Tony’s, even in Evie’s and my eyes. The flash of light that means she’s got just a few screws loose and is capable of taking a nosedive right into the insanity pool. Good thing I got out while the getting was good.

Evangeline

45

My arm is constantly on fire and I’ve taken to wearing hoodies while at home, so no one will see what I’ve been doing. Not that there’s many people to hide from. Clarissa and Hunter drift in and out of the house, and while Uncle Greg has stopped over a few times trying to lend support, I’ve made it clear that I’m still grieving and not ready to face the world just yet. So he stays slightly distanced at my request, and I never leave the house. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I did so; probably my dad’s funeral, almost two weeks ago.

I like the constant hurt, though. It reminds me that I’m grounded, that while I may not be accepting and moving on or healing, at least I’m dealing and I’m not floating away. Dealing unhealthily and crazily and stupidly, but dealing nonetheless. I’m coming to enjoy my solitude, actually. I wish that Clarissa would leave permanently and take Hunter with her and just leave me to waste away here, because the idea leaves me with a content feeling. I’m all alone in the world; I might as well make it literal, not just figurative.

The only thing that distracts me from my black pit of despair is Zeke. For some reason, even though I tell myself after that first day that I don’t care, I seem finely attuned and know exactly when he shows up at my house every day. I know exactly when he leaves, and I can’t stop myself from spending a portion of every day watching him through a window as he works. It’s just as much of a draw, of a hypnotic poison, as cutting myself. Watching the blood well up, watching Zeke as he attacks the garden in what always seems to be a rage. I’m not even sure why he still comes. He has to know that pressing charges on him for graffiti is the absolute last thing any of us are thinking of doing right now.

Regardless, he still comes every weekday and serves his time, arriving and leaving on the dot like clockwork. And for just that bit of time I return to sanity, wonder what the hell is going on with my life, if I should start to be concerned about how deep I am sinking and poorly I am dealing with all of this. But then he leaves and sanity flees and I stop wondering and just accept that I am lost and can never be found again.

It’s during one of these saner moments that I realize I can’t remember the last time I’ve eaten, or showered, for that matter, and that I’m feeling weak and airy all over, not with the threat of floating away but with exhaustion and hunger and probably blood loss. I head downstairs, reasoning that the coast is partially clear since Zeke is still outside and Clarissa is supposed to be at a luncheon with some of her friends.

I’m just pulling a pizza out of the oven, though, when I hear the garage door open and close my eyes, trying to figure out who I’d like to see less at the moment; Clarissa or Hunter. The house door opens and I hear the clack, clack, clack of heels on the hardwood floor and then Clarissa breezes into the kitchen.

Although, breeze doesn’t seem to be the right word to describe my stepmother anymore. Her clacking has more of a clump to it as she walks heavily into the kitchen and throws her bag down on the counter, and then goes straight to the wine rack and selects a bottle. It’s rare to see her anymore without a wineglass in hand, and I can tell from the slow, methodical way that she uncorks the bottle and pours herself a glass that she must have been drinking at her luncheon as well.

I think about saying something, but then I decide there’s no point. Undoubtedly, we’re about to argue, and I don’t feel like being the one to start it.

Hunter and I will probably be gone next week, Clarissa finally says, taking a long pull from her wine glass. Some of the ladies from the club are going on a cruise and I was able to get a last minute invitation. Through some miracle.

I turn slightly and just stare at her, pizza cutter outstretched over the counter. What? I squeak. You’re my guardian. You can’t just leave me on my own for a week. It would be the first time I’ve ever been left truly alone, no Tony or friends to call if something happened, no dad to come rushing home if I needed him.

I don’t like Clarissa being around, but an empty house? Empty, just like when Tony was here. When he raped me. My gut clenches and my fingers all seem to go numb. I drop the pizza cutter with a clatter as memories assault me.

Clarissa sneers at me, though I barely see her. Neither of us wants the other one around. Let’s not pretend otherwise. I need to go and try to undo some of the damage you’ve done.

That gets my full attention. "Damage I’ve done?"

Don’t you realize the effect your lawsuit is having on my reputation? On that of this family? Clarissa asks, staring at me.

Something very cold enters my chest, chilling me all over even though I’m standing next to the warm oven. Is that all you care about? I ask, my voice quiet and calm, already resigned because I’m sure I know her answer. Your reputation? It doesn’t matter at all if something horrible happened to me? That I still can’t come to terms with it?

Assuming it’s all true, she snorts, and takes a big swallow of wine.

I hear a roaring in my ears as I stare at her, shocked. You… how can you say that? You saw me that night! You saw Tony, too, and what he did to me.

"The Stulls are two of the top-rated lawyers in the state, Clarissa shoots back. Their son would never do such a thing."

I stare at her, incredulous. Clarissa and I have never gotten along, not from day one. I know she’s always been jealous of my closeness with my father, but never would I have guessed that her anger and rage ran so deep. Deep enough that it practically seems to be genuine hatred.

I want to yell and scream and rage at her, but it feels too exhausting. Tired. Always so tired lately. What’s the use, anyway? She won’t listen, won’t try to understand, won’t care. She won’t try to help me.

No one will.

Ezekiel

46

I’m heading toward the house for lunch, up the sloping lawn to the stairs of the deck, when I hear Clarissa’s high-pitched, grating voice.

"-isn’t enough that you want to sit there and ruin our reputation, along with that of the Stulls. Accusing Tony of beating you isn’t enough? Now you want to add this to the list! Just because you were foolish enough to let him hit you, we’re going to have doors closed to us!"

I suck in a breath at Clarissa’s words and their blatant disregard for Evie. As though it was actually Evie’s fault that Tony hit her. Before I can stop myself, I draw closer to the left side of the house so I can hear better. There’s a window open in the kitchen and I stick my neck out just far enough that I can see the back of Clarissa’s blonde head.

They already documented it all at the hospital. The charges are being pressed as they are. Evie’s voice is more forceful than I’ve ever heard it, at least since Tony’s accident. You can’t just take it back, Clarissa. And it’s true.

It was a gimmick for attention! Clarissa is practically shouting, and I have to wonder if she knows there are open windows, because I’m sure she doesn’t want the neighbors to hear this argument—although, they’re all so far away maybe she doesn’t have to be worried. You’ve never been satisfied with all your father has given you. Tony was a good boy! He wouldn’t do such a thing, and you only told your father it was unwilling because you knew it would make him obsessed with you from then on! I’m tired of your ‘poor me’ act, Evie.

Your ‘good boy’ is being charged with assault and first degree murder, Evie says coldly. Clearly he’s not so good as everyone thought.

We live in Dublin! Clarissa screams. "We belong to a country club and your father was a doctor with a multi-million dollar practice! Rape does not happen to us! So you can take your sorry excuses and use them where somebody might actually give you the pity that you want so badly, do you understand me? Because I refuse to deal with this any longer."

I freeze, shocked all the way down to my tingling toes. Rape? I’d seen what Tony had done to her, the way he had beaten her. I’d known things were bad between them, terrible even, but fuck. Rape?

I don’t need your pity, Evie’s voice is calm and chilled, and I shiver despite myself. I don’t need anything from you.

I’m glad we’re on the same page, Clarissa sniffs. "If you breathe one word of this to anyone, I’ll disown you. I’ll turn you in to social services. I know what you’re