Until We Fly (Beautifully Broken 4)

He nods. “I know you do. And your mom is gesturing to us. Shall we?”

We make our way back inside, and sit at our places. I’m at my father’s left, Nate is at his right. My mom is across the table by Brand.

I feel like we’re separated by an ocean and I look at him helplessly.

He stares at me pointedly.

You’ve got this.

I take a breath.

I’m actually fine for the first twenty minutes of dinner. My mother is chatting across the table with Brand, my father focuses his attention on Nate, and I’m left pushing my food around my plate, but I’m perfectly happy with that. As long as he leaves me alone I’m happy with that.

Until William walks into the room.

I feel like the temperature drops twenty degrees when he enters, and a chill runs down my spine. I stop chewing, I stop breathing.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Camille,” William apologizes without a smile.

Ice water pumps through my veins at the sight of his face.

It’s strange. I’ve known him my entire life, and while he made me uneasy throughout my teen years, I never knew why. I never knew that I should fear him… until last year.

“It’s fine,” my mother answers, her distaste apparent. “You didn’t get back to me, so I assumed that you weren’t coming. Let me get you a place setting.”

She rises gracefully, and William circles the table to me.

“I’ll sit by Nora,” he announces.

My skin crawls as he bends and kisses my cheek.

Don’t touch me, you ugly Fucker.

I want to burn it off. I want to race out of the room, go straight to the kitchen, dig out some matches and set my face on fire….all to burn off his lip prints.

“Hello, my dear,” he murmurs as he sits down next to me. “You’re hard to get a hold of.”

I’m numb, frozen to my seat and all I want to do is bolt from my chair. William rests his arm on the back of my seat, his fingers lightly touching my back. As if he owns me. As if he has the right.

Across the room, Brand watches me like a hawk, his gaze intense, his eyes frozen to mine.

Are you ok?

I take a breath.

Yes. I nod, barely moving.

He stares at me still, unconvinced, ready to come to my aid.

He’s right. I’m not ok.

I’m not ok.

But I have to pretend like I am.

Appearances are everything.

I keep eating, ignoring my father and Nate and William. I keep eating, keep pretending that this isn’t happening, that I’m not at the same table, breathing the same air as the man who raped me mere months ago.