One-Eighty (Westover Prep 1)

“And what—”

I answer her next question, stating the time after looking down at my phone and the date.

This is the third time they’ve been in my room to conduct neuro checks. They said I could go home after the fourth one, and I’m just biding my time. It’s late, the sun already giving up for the day and falling below the horizon, but after sleeping some, I feel rejuvenated and ready to go home.

“Very good, Piper,” the nurse praises. “You’ll be out of here in no time.”

“See?” I glare at my dad when the nurse excuses herself. “I’m fine.”

“You haven’t been fine for a long time,” Mom says.

My skin begins to tingle, and the healed cuts on the inside of my thighs burn as if they’re reopening and coming back to life.

“Wh-what?”

“When I went back to the house to get your phone and some clothes for you…” Dad swallows, looking away from my eyes.

“What did you do?”

“We have every right as parents to go through your things.”

My pulse pounds in my ears, but the headache I expect stays away this time. It’s only a simple relief because if he’s saying what I think he’s saying, there’s no hope for Dalton and me.

“What did you do?”

Tears fill my eyes, and I don’t bother trying to wipe them away as they cascade down my cheeks in a torrent. I don’t care that my itchy hospital gown is getting soaked around my neck. It’s the pain on my parents’ faces that nearly guts me.

I never wanted them to find any of this out, especially after Dalton has changed.

They won’t care. They won’t bother to take the time to see him as anything other than the monster they’ve clearly read about.

“He’s done horrible things to you,” Dad whispers.

“I care about him,” I argue. “He’s not the same man as the one you read about.”

“You didn’t tell us any of it,” Mom adds. “You’ve been suffering this whole time…”

She drops her head into her hands and sobs. Dad wraps his arm around her shoulder and pulls her in close to his chest. Sad eyes look up at me over her head.

“You’ve scarred your body because of him.”

“Not just him.” I say the words before I realize they don’t really help my case. Everything everyone did to me was because of Dalton, and depending on how much they read, they’d know that, too.

“Exactly,” Dad says.

I want to remind them of the times I came to them to tell them that Dalton was mean to me, and they just made excuses for the way little boys act around pretty girls, but this isn’t their fault any more than it is mine. All of this is on Dalton, and I just have to figure out a way to make them understand that forgiving him is my responsibility, not theirs.

“This is the second time I’ve been in the hospital. Why didn’t you mention the scars on my legs before? Surely the doctors noticed them after the accident.”

I cross my arms over my chest, needing to deflect as much of this spotlight off of Dalton and me and point it somewhere else.

“The doctor mentioned them,” Dad admits, “but they were secondary to the head injury. You seemed happier shortly after you got home, so I didn’t mention them.”

“I was happier because of Dalton.” Everything is completely different than it was the day Dalton sprayed me with the water hose the night of the party.

“He’s tortured you for years,” Dad says like I need the reminder. “You cut yourself because of him.”

I don’t have an argument for this because it’s true. The pain I’ve endured for as long as I can remember hasn’t faded. I don’t have on rose-colored glasses where Dalton is concerned, and I wouldn’t be arguing with my parents if I truly didn’t believe he’s changed.

“I should’ve come to you about the way I was being treated at school, but I was handling it.”

“By cutting?” Mom pulls her face from Dad’s shirt to look at me. “Oh, sweetheart, that isn’t the way to handle things like this. You should’ve come to us.”

I bite my tongue until I taste blood. Even if I had come to my parents about what was going on, there’s a good chance they couldn’t have stopped it. Dalton and his band of idiots were relentless, and I’ve seen what happens when kids speak up. Things get worse for them, and worse for me would’ve been an early grave because I was always teetering on that edge anyway.

“I care about him,” I repeat.

“It’s Stockholm Syndrome,” my dad mumbles. “I never should’ve allowed you to tutor Peyton. It put you in his evil path.”

I scoff. “It’s not Stockholm Syndrome.”

“I’m a doctor,” he reminds me.

“And I’m the person going through all of this. Things were fine after the accident. The Paynes came over and had dinner with us. Why the sudden change? Why now? Even if I wasn’t dating Dalton, I probably would’ve ended up here. This isn’t his fault. We both made mistakes that night.”