“Don’t worry about me.” I wanted to hold her, but I didn’t dare. If I couldn’t even manage to explain myself, why did I deserve to touch her? I managed something like a smile, but the look on her face told me it was weak. “I’m okay. I just need some time alone.”

“Bullshit,” she said. “Look, you gave me a rule about communicating. You told me to always be honest, to speak openly. If you’re not ready to talk yet, that’s okay. But I’m not leaving. I’m not mad, I promise. You haven’t —”

“You should be.”

She stopped, frowning at me. “What?”

“You should be mad.” I sat back down, leaning against the tree behind me as I gripped my knees, wishing the pressure would relieve some of the tension inside me.

She sat beside me, leaving a gap between us. But she reached over and laid her hand on top of mine, and the words spilled out before I could stop them.

“You should be mad, because you shouldn’t have to see that. You shouldn’t have some guy throwing his fists around like he can’t control himself. Raising his voice like a child. It’s not right. It’s not safe.”

She shouldn’t have to see what I’d grown up seeing. The adult tantrums, fists thrown into walls; plates, cups, and valuables broken. Using violence as strength, as intimidation. It made me sick to see it come out of me, leaking like an infected wound. But that was all my dad had left me with: festering wounds that refused to heal.

“I’m safe with you, Manson,” she said firmly. “There isn’t a single doubt in my mind that I’m safe with you. You got angry. Everyone does. That’s okay.”

No. No, it wasn’t. She was wrong. I flinched when she touched my cheek, turning my face toward her. That tightness in my chest was swelling to a breaking point. But she held my face there, and I couldn’t look at her and lie. She disarmed me so completely that it didn’t matter how ashamed I was to be like this.

She deserved to hear the truth. All of it.