“What are you doing?” I whisper.

“Your daughter is special, and it’s pathetic that, as her mother, you can’t see that.”

“How dare you?” my mom huffs as Dad stands from the table as well.

Addressing my dad, Ryot says, “Mr. Moore, I apologize for the outburst, but I can’t sit here and listen to your wife denigrate Myla with every word she says. That’s unpardonable and disgusting. I can’t and won’t remain silent when someone I care about is being torn to shreds. However, I hope you and I can share a meal in the future.”

He then turns to my mom and says, “I have simply no idea how you were ever employed as a therapist when you are so capable of such monstrous and hateful words, knowing the ramifications. No. Idea. Thank God you weren’t able to destroy this precious woman by my side, emotionally . . . or physically.”

With that, he leads me to the entryway, where he picks up our shoes but doesn’t even bother putting them on before we are out of the house and heading to his car. He doesn’t say a word, just opens my door, helps me in, and then tosses my shoes in as well. When he opens his car door, he shoves his shoes to the back, buckles up, starts the car, and drives.

Nothing is said.

And as we drive through the suburbs of Chicago, all I can think about is what my mom said . . . what Ryot said. Did he really mean all those things? I want to say he did, and that’s why he stuck up for me, but the little girl inside me, the one that’s been abused repeatedly by her mother, mentally and physically, she’s the one who is suffering the consequences. She’s the one feeling the doubt. She’s the one who wants to crawl into a hole and never be seen again.

I don’t pay attention to where we’re going until we’re pulling into the private parking lot of Ryot’s apartment building. He finds his spot, shuts off the engine, and then grabs his shoes from the back. He slips them on quickly and then exits the car. I slip my shoes on as well just as he opens my door and holds his hand out.

Unsure of what else to do, I take it and allow him to guide me up to his empty apartment. He doesn’t bother turning on any lights as he brings me to his bedroom and shuts the door.

“Ryot,” I finally say, my voice tight from holding back tears.

He doesn’t look at me, just charges toward the bathroom, where I hear something crash to the floor. The sound startles me.

He’s angry.

Very angry.

What do I do?

I peek around the corner and catch him leaning forward, gripping the counter while breathing heavily. When he notices me shift, he turns so his eyes are on me.

“Come here,” he says in a menacing tone. When I don’t move, he softens and says, “Myla, come here.”