Breaking Even (Sterling Shore 5)

“Because,” he says on a painful breath, “I could have told someone what she was doing to me, and they would have seen that she needed help. They could have stopped it after the first time she locked me up. They could have saved her life. She would have gotten the medicine she needed, and we might have had the chance to be happy. But instead of getting her help, I prayed for her to die. And she did. I hated my mother so much that I prayed for her to die. Now all I can do is come here, decorate her grave, and try to atone for my sins by giving her coffee, flowers, and pictures.”

This time I pull him down to meet my lips because I don’t know what else to do to take away this pain. “It wasn’t your fault,” I whisper against his lips. “You were a scared kid who was terrified, and you had no one there for you. It wasn’t your fault.” When he doesn’t say anything back, I repeat the words for a third time, annunciating each one to punctuate the meaning as best as possible. “It. Wasn’t. Your. Fault.”

He stifles another sob as he picks me up and presses his face against my neck. I feel his tears against my skin, and I start stroking his hair with my hands. It makes sense now. I can’t say I fully understand his mind and what he’s suffered, but I can see why he’d be reluctant to get close to anyone, and I’ve been pushing him, and pushing him, and not giving him the time he needed.

His life was beyond fucked up, and that’s the

only family he’s ever really known. How does someone move on from that?

“I’m sorry,” I murmur softly, kissing his cheek as his hold on me tightens.

My feet are dangling several inches from the ground as he clutches me to him, but I don’t care. He can hold me like this for as long as he wants to.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you for more. If I had known... Rye, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

His lips press against my neck, and he kisses it, moving slowly around in small, patterned circles. “If you hadn’t pushed me for more, I’d still be angry,” he almost whispers.

I try to dissect that and analyze what it can possibly mean as he continues trailing small kisses all over my neck.

“I wouldn’t have wanted more,” he says, squeezing me almost too tightly. He puts me down gently, and he turns toward the grave once more.

He sits down on the ground, and I join him without regard for my shivering body. His arm comes around my shoulders, and I lean into him. For at least thirty minutes, we sit silently, just listening to the sounds of the graveyard.

It’s actually not as creepy as it sounds.

It’s a sea of tombstones that tell brief stories with a few simple endearments—some are truths, some are lies. All are insufficient if you’re looking for true insight into a person’s life.

Most say loving mother, just as his mother’s tombstone. But it doesn’t stain the present with pain from the past by telling that she lost her control in her life. It doesn’t show the scars she embedded deep inside of her son’s mind when the sickness ruled her. And it doesn’t tell the story of how their home was broken because of a disease they couldn’t see without physical manifestation.

Some stories are buried with the bodies those tombstones represent. Secrets hide amongst the layers of memories that still rest on the surface. Each soul has a different story that may or may not be told. And we’re here, listening to the resting souls that have left behind both good and bad stories to be shared.

I never thought I could sit silently in a graveyard without being terrified, but I feel an odd sense of serenity seeping from Rye as it runs over me. It’s as though his whole demeanor has shifted in a matter of weeks. And it’s as though this was some sort of closure that he needed.

He’s blamed himself. For years he’s blamed himself. He’s still blaming himself, and that breaks my heart. But I’ll make sure to remind him as much as necessary that it wasn’t his fault.

No matter what happens between us, I’ll never stop being his friend. Especially not now. He trusted me with this, and now I’ll make it my mission that he never carries this burden alone again.

“Let’s get out of here,” he whispers, breaking the silence at last as he stands and helps me to my feet.

He stares at the picture of a small boy being held by a loving mother—the memories from a good day. Then he threads our fingers back together, and he tugs me toward the car. Our footsteps are slower, heavier, and much wearier as we make it to the vehicle.

“Can I ask why you decided to share this with me?” I ask when we reach the gate.

He smiles tightly as he opens the door, and ushers me in on the passenger side. Just as I make it into the seat, he answers me.

“You brought me the peace I haven’t ever had. I just thought you might want to know what you saved me from.”

He shuts the door while my lips part and a confused breath of air slips free. Even now he’s the most confusing person I’ve ever met.

He climbs in and cranks the car, and with the streetlights, now I can see his face. His eyes are glossy, but his tears are gone.

“What peace?” I ask as he pulls out onto the road.

His grin grows, and he reaches over for my hand once we’re on the straightaway.

“No anger, tiger. None. You broke it down little by little, and now it’s just... gone. I never thought it was possible. Even when you were pissing me off with your vicious, unprovoked attacks, you were drawing out the real anger that I never thought would leave.”

My attacks were completely provoked, but this hardly seems like the time to joke. Especially since I’m crying harder now and exerting a tremendous amount of effort not to start bawling like a baby.