Waylon gives a small nod before turning to rub the tip of his nose against my skin. “Yeah. It’s quiet here.”

I turn my head toward the window as he draws a finger down the center of my chest.

In a voice so low I have to strain to hear him, he says, “It’s always quieter when I’m with you.”

Jesus fuck, this guy.

I tighten my arms around him, wrapping him up in a bear hug as I bury my face in his hair.

I have no words.

None at all.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse...

I’m not normally such a violent guy, but I’ve never wanted to strangle the fucking shit out of someone as much as I want to strangle Waylon’s dad.

I want to hurt him for hurting Waylon. For making him doubt who he is. I want to make that asshole suffer. I want to watch the fear play across his eyes as I snuff the life out of him with my bare hands.

How fucked up in the head do you have to be to force your 11-year-old child to watch porn while you spew your fucked up ignorant filth in their ear? Beating him when his prepubescent biology worked against him?

I can’t even wrap my brain around it.

I don’t want to wrap my brain around it.

Because when I think about how if I just...followed my gut back then and told someone, really told someone what I suspected was happening, maybe CPS would have actually fucking done something. Maybe I could have begged my parents to take him back to Philly with us. Maybe that summer didn’t have to happen.

But instead, I left him there. Alone.

And I know it’s not fair to him or me to dwell on all these would-have, could-have, should-have, and what-ifs—we were kids, for fuck’s sake—but I can’t help it. I can’t help but compare his summer to mine that year.

My misery was nothing—nothing compared to what was happening to him.

It makes me sick just thinking about it.

I just...can’t. The rage, the helplessness, the regret...

It paralyzes me.

“Will?”

“Yeah?”

“Stop.”

I suck in a shaky breath. “Stop what?”

He sighs. Pressing a hand to my chest, he gives me no choice but to ease up some of my iron-clad hold on him.

He presses his other hand down on the mattress next to my head, holding his face right above mine. He searches my eyes with a deep frown. “You need to stop beating yourself up for shit that’s out of your control.”

And just because I can—at least right now—I reach up and smooth the little wrinkle between his eyes with my thumb. “You a mind-reader now?”

He scowls. “No, you just have the poker-face of a golden retriever.”