His hand grips my ankle and he yanks me until I’m beneath him. “I’m not angry, Lily,” he says, his voice disturbingly calm now. “I just think I haven’t proved to you how much I love you.” His body comes down against mine and he takes my wrists with one hand above my head, pressing them against the mattress.

“Ryle, please.” I’m sobbing, trying to push him off of me with any part of my body. “Get off me. Please.”

No, no, no, no.

“I love you, Lily,” he says, his words crashing against my cheek. “More than he ever did. Why can’t you see that?”

My fear folds in on itself, and I become diluted with rage. All I can see when I squeeze my eyes shut is my mother crying on our old living room couch; my father forcing himself on top of her. Hatred rips through me and I start screaming.

Ryle tries to muffle my screams with his mouth.

I bite down on his tongue.

His forehead comes crashing down against mine.

In an instant, all the pain fades as a blanket of darkness rolls over my eyes and consumes me.

• • •

I can feel his breath against my ear as he mutters something inaudible. My heart is racing, my whole body is still shaking, my tears are still somehow falling and I’m gasping for air. His words are crashing against my ear, but the pain is throbbing in my head too hard for me to decipher his words.

I try to open my eyes, but it stings. I can feel something trickling into my right eye and I instantly know it’s blood.

My blood.

His words begin to come into focus.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m . . .”

His hand is still pressing mine into the mattress and he’s still on top of me. He’s no longer trying to force himself on me.

“Lily, I love you, I’m so sorry.”

His words are full of panic. He’s kissing me, his lips gentle against my cheek and mouth.

He knows what he’s done. He’s Ryle again, and he knows what he’s just done to me. To us. To our future.

I utilize his panic to my advantage. I shake my head and I whisper, “It’s okay, Ryle. It’s okay. You were angry, it’s okay.”

His lips meet mine in a frenzy and the taste of scotch makes me want to puke now. He’s still whispering apologies when the room begins to fade out again.

• • •

My eyes are closed. We’re still on the bed, but he’s no longer fully on top of me. He’s on his side, his arm wrapped tightly over my waist. His head is pressed against my chest. I remain stiff as I assess everything around me.

He isn’t moving, but I can feel his breaths, heavy with sleep. I don’t know if he passed out or if he fell asleep. The last thing I can remember is his mouth on mine, the taste of my own tears.