“No one knows it’s about you, although they might have an idea since you showed up at the edge of the stage like you did. No one knew we’d even spoken to each other until you did that.”

“That’s my life you’re up there singing about. I didn’t give you permission.” He jabbed so hard at his chest, I winced.

“I’ve sung songs about you before.”

“When we were alone,” he roared, panting like he’d been out on the field all afternoon.

I swallowed again, my mouth feeling like a saliva factory.

“You’re going to leave, and I’m going to be stuck here with everyone, and now they know the song.” His body was racked with something between a shudder and a convulsion.

“Dare, please give me the guitar.” I held out my hand trying to keep my voice from wavering, but I failed. It trembled like a leaf in a hurricane.

My father’s guitar. He had it and he was raging. All the things I’d thought I’d known about him were a lie. If they weren’t, I wouldn’t be cornered in a room with a guy towering over me and screaming like I’d ripped out his heart. No, that was what he was doing to me.

“The guitar.” He looked at it and his head jerked back like he’d only just realized he was still holding it. “This guitar is more important than our conversation? Than what you just did to me? Everyone out there is staring at me. Asking about my fucking lip and all you can talk about is this fucking guitar? The instrument of my torture?”

The air left my lungs. I felt the movement, the shift in the room, before he did it. Like the silent before a shockwave hit, and I covered my ears.

“Dare, no!” My scream was lost, drowned out by the splintering of wood against concrete. I couldn’t breathe. Dots swam in front of my eyes. I braced my hands on the vanity next to me.

His head snapped in my direction like a predator finding another bit of prey. I was next. I dropped to the floor in the corner, hoping someone would find me, and that this wouldn’t hurt nearly as much as what he’d done to my heart.

35

Dare

“Dare!” Her scream pierced the veil of rage that had been protecting me from the pain and rawness clawing at my chest.

Ripped from the hazy place where I couldn’t see, hear, or feel anything, I snapped back to the small room behind the stage. My fingers were wrapped around the broken, hanging neck of the guitar.

Strings stuck out at all angles. The body of the instrument she’d sat on stage singing with lay demolished, pieces scattered in a circle in front of me.

Her hands were cupped over her mouth, trying and failing to hold back the sobs wracking her body. With wide eyes filled with fear, she curled up in a ball as far away from me as she could in the corner of the room.