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Back Confess to Me Save as PDF
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Sharon Doering
  3. Title Page
  4. Dedication
  5. Prologue
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
  59. 54
  60. 55
  61. 56
  62. 57
  63. 58
  64. 59
  65. 60
  66. 61
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  69. 64
  70. 65
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  74. 69
  75. 70
  76. 71
  77. 72
  78. 73
  79. 74
  80. 75
  81. 76
  82. 77
  83. 78
  84. 79
  85. Author’s Note
  86. Acknowledgements
  87. About the Author

I stepped backward into the water, and sucked air through my teeth, pretended to cry a bit. “Cold. It’s so fucking cold. This is your fault. Your turn. You owe me.” The river water wasn’t going to get the marshmallow off my face, but I wanted to be in the water with her.

She sighed, a smile sliding up her face, and pulled her T-shirt over her head. Kicked off her shoes and wiggled out of her jeans. Her bra and underwear were plain and white. Her body, backlit by the bonfire’s flickering flames, looked like something otherworldly. Even with the cold water, I was hard again. She walked barefoot, carefully, watching where she stepped.

Her hair fell across her face, and she tucked it behind her ear. Her expression was masked and dark now because the bonfire was behind her, but my eyes weren’t on her face anyway. She stepped in without hesitating.

“What the hell?” I said. “How are you not even cold? I feel like such a wuss.”

She laughed, coming close. The moon reflected off the water, tinting her skin with a bluish radiance. The whites of her teeth, her eyes, her white bra; they were glowing. Her nipples were hard.

“Why would you want to see me get angry?” I said, my teeth chattering.

She bit the side of her bottom lip, then let go. “For fun.”

“Victims of sadistic abuse often describe their trauma in a flat, unemotional way, and that might make those listening think the patient is lying. I’m here to tell you, if you’ve been brainwashed, if you have been chronically abused, this deadpan presentation is normal and necessary for self-preservation.”

Doctor Clifford Paulson, PhD Psychology
Transcripts from the Sixth Annual Conference on
Adult Manifestations of Childhood Trauma

THE RADISSON PLAZA HOTEL, CINCINNATI, OHIO

36

36

HEATHER

I have held a grudge against casseroles for as long as I could remember. Casseroles reminded me of walking into my parents’ house after school, a half dozen pairs of smelly sneakers kicked off at the door, and the oven timer beeping. Casseroles reminded me of after-dinner bloating and bickering, of alcohol-soaked evenings, dirty dishes left out for morning sobriety. Casseroles were the essence of life slopped together, a scoop of this trashy story, a dash of that tragedy, cover it in cheese, and shovel it down.

So, what do you know, I made a casserole!

A modern casserole, mind you. This one used two heaping cups of cauliflower rice, making it low-carb. Trevor’s mom loved both cauliflower and casseroles. At least she used to.

I sent Trevor a text.

I made a casserole. We can eat dinner as a family, then I’ll leave for your mom’s house, and you can relax with the kids.

I didn’t expect a return text. It was early. He’d only been at work a few hours.