Until We Fly (Beautifully Broken 4)

Silence.

Then my father strikes, using his words as his weapons.

“Nora, stop being weak. You’re a Greene. Act l

ike it. Do what it takes. Do you think I’ve always enjoyed the things I’ve had to do? I don’t give a fuck if you enjoy it. I don’t give a fuck if you hate it. But you will do what it takes to make him happy and keep him on our side. You know damn well that the deal with the city of Chicago is riding on his approval. You will not fuck it up. Got it?”

I’m numb as I listen to my father’s words, the words that condemn me into basically selling my soul, my decency and my body for the sake of the company. He’s commanding me to do it. His own daughter. Most fathers do everything they can to protect their daughters. Not mine.

Because I’m silent, my father prods me.

“Do we have an understanding?”

I’m still silent because honestly, I can’t force myself to speak. My mind is a flurry of words and sensations and horror and I just can’t manage to move my lips.

You’re a Greene, Nora. Act like it.

I shudder as I think about the last time my father had said those words to me. It was after the ‘incident’. The mere memory of the ‘incident’ makes me need to shower and without another word, I hang up on my father.

I rush back in the house and breeze past Brand, who is cleaning off the table.

“I saved your plate,” he starts to tell me, but I hold up my hand.

“I need a shower,” I call over my shoulder. He’s frozen in place staring at me, a look of utter shock on his handsome face.

I’m aware that I look like a crazy person. But I’ve got to get the handprints off of me. They might be only memories, but I can still feel each one.

I let the hot water scald my back, running over my face and my hips. I let it wash away my doubts and my fear and my memories.

It’s when I’m in the shower, and only when I’m in the shower, that I feel truly clean. I scrub myself until my skin feels red and raw, until the handprints have been scalded off.

As the water pours over me, I do what I always have to do when this happens. I focus on any possible thing to turn my mind away from the nightmare of that night, to forget the invisible hands on my body.

Today, it helps to focus on Brand.

Brand’s smile, Brand’s strength. The ornery way his eyes twinkle. His goodness.

His goodness.

I sigh again as I towel off. Brand is far too good for me.

Which is funny, because even as I feel tainted and unworthy because of….everything, I’m still acting like a hussy to get Brand to notice me. To get him to take me up on my no-strings offer for the summer.

Why am I doing this?

Brand’s right. It’s so not me.

But I’m desperate, just for a few weeks, to see if I can lose myself in Brand. To see if his goodness can eclipse the part of me that is so irrevocably damaged, just for a little while. He’s the only one good enough to do it.

I’m selfish, I know. I’m selfish for being willing to let him put himself in someone’s body who is so… used.

I shudder, and I can’t hold the nausea back any more.

I lunge for the toilet and hang my head in it, emptying my stomach. I retch and retch and then there are cool hands on my back, and fingers lifting my hair away from my face and holding it back.

“It’s okay,” Brand tells me quietly, stroking my back with his rough hands. “It’s okay.”

He has no idea that I need comforting. I don’t know why I’m not humiliated that he’s here as I’m vomiting, but it seems perfectly right.