Because You're Mine

by Rea Frey

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  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

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  For my agent, Rachel Beck, and my editor, Alex Sehulster.

  You are my dream team.

  a note to readers

  Ten days after my fifteenth birthday, I let a boy ride the bus home with me—after my mother explicitly told me not to. It was a boy I liked. A boy who was two years older than me. A boy I was interested in. A boy I considered a boyfriend.

  I thought I was ready for a physical relationship. (I wasn’t.) I thought, when he came home with me, we were going to experience something special. (We didn’t.) When he disappeared to the bathroom, and I was alone in my bedroom, something told me to run. Get out of my own house. Go.

  But I stayed. When he entered the doorway, naked, with a removed look on his face, I knew what happened next was not going to be good.

  In that bedroom, on that day, with this boy, I said no. I screamed no. I cried. I was held down. I bled. I went numb. He had a one-track mind, and I closed myself off, too afraid to do anything about it.

  After that day? I continued to see him, even though I questioned myself: How could I ever spend even one second with someone who did such an unspeakable thing?

  Because I wanted to pretend it never happened. I wanted to turn my saying no into some version of I brought this on myself. I felt, in some sick way, like he owned a part of me. I wanted—no, needed—to make it okay, to make him okay, so I wasn’t a victim.

  I continued to see him at school, outside of school, at parties, until I just wanted to get away from it all. At the time, I was confused. I felt guilty. I accused him. I hated him. I needed him. This awful thing had happened to me, but I felt tied to him because he’d taken something from me I could never get back.

  Finally, I confronted him. (More specifically, I punched him. That was when I found boxing.) I switched schools. I found my own forms of therapy. I started kickboxing, then boxing, then dabbled in a bit of jiujitsu. I learned how to protect myself, how to protect my body, my mind, and my heart.

  More than anything, during those tenuous times, I found writing. Those horrible moments in a childhood bedroom led me to cutting, an eating disorder, angsty teen rebellion—but finally brought me to (and kept me on) the page.

  Though this is something I have never spoken about publicly, I want to assure people that sexual assault can be confusing. There are two sides to every story, and it’s not always a stranger violating you, or taking you by surprise. It can be someone you know, someone you trust, even someone you love. Someone who can take something from you that they are not allowed to take.

  This novel features characters dealing with serious subject matter, such as sexual assault, alcoholism, and suicide. If you’ve ever dealt with any of these issues, it’s important to confide in someone: a friend, a parent, a teacher, a trusted colleague—any of these people can help you find support.

  If you don’t want to talk to someone you know, there are many services that provide free, confidential help to anyone struggling with sexual abuse or suicidal thoughts.

  Here are a few well-known providers:

  THE NATIONAL SUICIDE PREVENTION LIFELINE

  The lifeline provides free and confidential support for people in distress, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The toll-free number is 1-800-273-8255. The website is suicidepreventionlifeline.org.

  THE NATIONAL SEXUAL ABUSE HOTLINE

  This hotline provides support, information, advice, and referrals by trained support specialists. It is free and confidential and is available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The toll-free number is 1-800-656-HOPE. The website is rainn.org.

  Remember: you are not alone.

  prologue

  She is going to die.

  She doesn’t know it yet. She knows she should be sleeping. She knows she shouldn’t have come out here in the middle of the night. She knows she should have skipped the wine.

  But the girls gave her such a hard time about not making the hike this morning. They’d come off the trail, sweat stained and endorphin soaked, ready for coffee, green juices, and egg whites. While they were enjoying nature, she was sleeping, which was the entire point of this weekend.

  Now, a branch pops under her boot. Pine and dirt create a sensory cocktail as the mountain air bites her lungs. The moon is a guiding half bulb that cranks her skin to the lightness of milk. She struggles to find her footing on the path that weaves in a zigzag. She checks her reception: two bars. Her fingers swipe for the phone’s flashlight, but she thinks better of it and switches it off. She’ll need the battery.

  Her breath severs into short inhales and sharp exhales as she climbs. She is not a strong hiker, has never been. So why is she climbing a mountain?

  She is climbing to get away from the secret just revealed, moments before, the way it slugged through her body, word by word. She is climbing to get away from herself.

  She trips over a tree root and steadies her footing. “Careful,” she warns. It will be a miracle if she doesn’t sprain an ankle or get mauled by a bear. The app on her phone shows the peak is half a mile up, the spike of the mountain a phantom through the swollen trees.

  Her body spasms the higher she climbs. Her lungs flame. The wine coats her tongue in a sweet, black film. The alcohol’s effects crush her senses. She surrenders to the discomfort of her limbs and shakes her head in an attempt to clear it.

  The darkness consumes her as the moon disappears behind a wispy cloud. She exhales into the muted night and releases the pain. She decides to focus only on the hike, the clean air, the sizeable stars that pop like diamonds scattered across a black cloth. The wind shoves forcefully at her back and propels her onward. The betrayal stings, but she needs to forget about it now. She sucks a ragged breath.

  “Just get to the top,” she murmurs.

  If she gets to the top, she will have accomplished something. If she gets to the top, she can forget about tonight. The trail makes a sharp left, but she mistakenly steps right. Her thighs quiver and she attempts to right herself. If she gets to the top, she will have done something no one thought—

  Her right foot swipes altitude as if she is knocked to the side. One moment she is steady, and the next she is not. Vertigo consumes her. Her heart stutters and threatens to stop while gravity scrapes her body toward the earth in a relentless wrench. She hears the sound of her bones crack against branches, then the sound of her voice—a startled whisper instead of a terrified scream.

  She anticipates the pain, the silent reel of her life making its final playback in the few seconds she has left. The reckless, ill-timed decision to take a midnight hike. The lies. The secrets. The truth, still burrowed inside, tangled and safe. Her. Him.

  She battles for breath while she falls farther, faster, and harder. Her child’s face blasts into her mind—motherless—as the ground hurtles into view. She can see it swimming toward her in a swath of green, jagged black rocks, and skinny trees. She keeps her eyes open.

 
; Here, in death, is where she will finally be brave. She stops the questions; the panic; the wonder; the wild, unexpected truth; and feels a small punch of relief. It’s all going to be over. Her life, her history, being a mother, everything.

  Gone in an instant.

  Her arms blade through the night. Her legs flutter through nothing. Now, it’s just air. Stars blur the inky sky. Trees whiz fast-motion around her. The shrill, displaced leaves, awakened birds, mossy boulders, bear shit. The path shrinks. She plummets facedown. Is she ready?

  She thinks only of her child as she smashes into the earth with impossible speed, her torso skewered between trunk and rock. There is a final, anguished breath and then nothing, as her scattered and torn body comes to its premature conclusion and sits, undisturbed, until daybreak.

  Part 1

  in the dark

  We are all searching for someone whose demons play well with ours.

  —Meghan Coates

  1 week before the fall

  thursday

  1

  grace

  The car idles. Grace cuts the engine, cradles the parking brake, and pulls. Her secret swirls inside her. She presses a hand to her belly and takes a deep breath to kill the nerves.

  After a hurried morning school drop-off for her son, Luca, Grace checks her hair in the rearview, hoping Lee can squeeze her in for a quick trim before work. She loves that her best friend owns a hair salon in her home, and that Grace can test the latest hair potions and coloring techniques when Lee needs a guinea pig. She knows it comes at a price: Lee’s gifted son, Mason, her chronic singleness, her insistence on being housebound. Her entire world is shrink-wrapped.

  Grace registers what she has to tell Lee and doesn’t know where to start. She imagines the shock, the aftermath, and how it might affect their relationship. She shakes her head, knowing it must be done, and exits the car.

  Lee’s small ranch—a rental in the up-and-coming Donelson Hills neighborhood—begs for fresh paint, new windows, and an updated roof. The rusted railing outlines a weather-worn front porch, unruly shrubs, and a once gorgeous magnolia has recently been struck by lightning. Now, a singed black nub is the only reminder of shady mornings spent beneath its leaves.

  On more than one occasion, Grace has offered to hire a mowing service or landscaping company, but Lee insists she’s got it handled.

  Grace lets herself in the side door. Lee’s voice rumbles from the back in a succession of pleas. “Come on, buddy. You’ve got to work with me.”

  She tiptoes toward Mason’s bedroom and stalls in the hallway as Lee struggles to get Mason’s shirt over his head. No matter how wide Lee stretches the necks of his shirts, that moment his head disappears, he panics, punches, and claws against the thin womb of fabric as the claustrophobia—one of his main phobias—takes hold.

  Mason and Luca are both seven, but Mason refuses to get dressed by himself. As a result, mother and son work in the same order: right sock, left sock, underwear, pants—never shorts, even on the hottest days—long-sleeved shirt, short-sleeved shirt over the top (soft cotton only), and a plain rubber band around his left wrist.

  “Buddy, please work with me.”

  “I can’t if you’re doing it wrong.” Mason’s tone splinters his mother’s resolve. Lee’s ribs quake with every breath, but she starts the process over, layer by layer. She knocks a flock of hair from her forehead with the back of a knobby wrist. Grace taps gently on the wood, careful not to startle Mason.

  “Hey, hi. I didn’t hear you.” Lee swivels toward the giant wall clock. “Is that the time?” Grace knows Lee is calculating the morning routine: Mason’s breakfast, her breakfast, shower, waiting for Noah—Mason’s homeschool teacher and occupational therapist—mixing color, and prepping the salon. Lee’s cell rings and she abandons her task to grab the call from her office.

  Mason rolls his eyes and turns his attention to Grace. “Please help me.”

  She kneels down. “I’m always here to help.”

  “Why can’t she do it right? We’ve been doing it the same way since I was five.”

  Grace smiles. “I know. Come here.”

  He reaches his arms overhead as she removes the fabric. She drinks him in. His unruly mop of kinked hair. His impossible paleness, despite hours of sunshine. His slight build. The patches of red that sometimes crop against his cheeks like poppies. “What do we have here?” She inspects the shirt and pinches the tag. “The culprit.”

  Mason crosses his arms and taps a foot. “She’s slipping in her old age,” he says. “Clearly.”

  Grace chuckles and snags a pair of scissors from Lee’s desk to snip the tag. “You know, your mom’s got a lot on her plate. You should cut her some slack.” She glances at Lee, who’s still on the phone, her back turned to both of them.

  “You’ve got a lot on your plate, but you always remember to remove Luca’s tags.”

  “Luca doesn’t mind tags.”

  He shrugs. “Well, if he did, you’d remember.”

  She winks. “Maybe.” She helps him with both shirts and stands back to assess. “So handsome.”

  He bows.

  Lee returns. “How’d you get him dressed?”

  Mason straightens and eyes his mother warily. “Grace found a tag.” He says the word as if it’s grotesque.

  “There was a tag?” She looks bewildered. “I could have sworn I cut all of them out.”

  “Hey, it’s fine. It happens. Right, bud?” Grace gives him a stern look.

  He sighs and bumps against Lee’s bony hip as he walks to the dining room.

  Lee presses the pads of her fingers into her eyes. “Sometimes I feel like he hates me.”

  Grace fondles her shoulder. “He doesn’t hate you. It’s called being a mother. It’s their job to give us a hard time.”

  “Luca doesn’t give you a hard time. Not like that.”

  She shrugs. “Luca and Mason are totally different.”

  Lee looks at the time again. “Shit, can you…”

  Grace already knows the rest of that question. Can you make him breakfast? “Sure.” Their shorthand developed quickly when Lee was in the throes of Mason’s diagnosis. Grace’s divorce from her ex, Chad, was old news by then, and she was available to help as much as possible with Mason. When Lee realized homeschool was going to be the best option for a child with sensory processing disorder, she quit her job at a well-known Nashville salon, Parlour & Juke, morphed her garage into a studio, and began taking clients at home.

  “Noah’s coming in an hour,” Lee continues. “I can’t afford to cancel any appointments today, but I’m just…” She rattles her head. Grace knows that Lee needs close to six clients to make enough money to pay Noah, and the bills. Though Noah works for a steep discount, Lee barely makes ends meet.

  “Go get ready. I’ve got breakfast.”

  Lee snorts. “What? This isn’t professional?” She motions to her sweatpants and wrinkled T-shirt.

  Grace assesses Lee. She is rail thin, thinner than she’s been in a while, with prominent elbows, hips, and kneecaps that protrude when she crosses her legs. Grace clocks her concave middle, her tiny breasts, and settles on her face. With bone structure to make a model cry, Lee could have made a fortune on the runway as a living fashion hanger if she’d wanted to. “You look beautiful. Even in pajamas. A little thin, if you ask me, but…”

  Lee rolls her eyes. “Well, if I had time to eat.” She gathers her hair into a ponytail and gnaws a rubber band from around her wrist with slightly crooked teeth. “You sure you don’t mind making him breakfast? I’ll be quick.”

  “She doesn’t mind!” Mason shouts from the next room.

  “See? He knows what’s up,” Grace says. “Gluten-free toast?”

  “Yes, with—”

  “SunButter, not almond butter. I remember. Cut into squares. Berries on the side. Not touching.”

  Lee sags. “What would I do without you?”

  “Go. Shower. Be clean.”

&n
bsp; Grace longs to flush away Lee’s overwhelming sense of responsibility. When they’d first met, Luca and Mason had been budding, exploratory babies. Lee had been looser, happier. Now, everything revolves around her mini daily dramas, and though Grace always listens, she knows their friendship has shifted in the last few months. Their conversations focus almost entirely on Lee: what she’s dealing with, how her past issues keep cropping up, how her stress surmounts everyone else’s, her sobriety, and how money is tight. Sometimes, Lee even makes cryptic comments about the night Mason was conceived, alluding to the answer to everyone’s question—who is Mason’s father?—but then, as if afraid of confiding too much, she shuts herself off like a faucet.

  Grace doesn’t want to add to her stress. She has something big to tell her, but she’s not sure this morning is the right time. She joins Mason in the kitchen. “So what happened besides the tag?” She opens the fridge and removes the bread.

  Mason taps out a rhythm on his pants. “She’s trying to quit coffee again. And we all know how that goes.”

  “So we’ve found the heart of the matter, at last.” She pops the bread into the toaster and washes her hands. “I have an idea. What if I make a pot of coffee just to get her—and you—through the day? Would that be okay?”

  “Is the pope Catholic? Yes. Please, yes.”

  She peers closely at him and cocks her head. “Are you absolutely, one hundred percent positive you’re not a middle-aged man? I could have sworn seven-year-olds don’t say things like that.”

  “I can’t wait to be middle-aged.”

  Grace snorts. “Trust me. I’m over forty. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “Lies.”

  Grace’s heart swells at their banter. Though Mason suffers from sensory processing disorder and carries his own aversions and anxieties around people, noises, touch, and even food, she knows he’s simply a divine being who is tangled in a complex world that doesn’t often understand him. But Grace understands him. Ever since he came into her life, she has been there for him, feels connected to him in the same way she does to Luca. She would do anything for him, and Lee knows it.