Exposed

by Brighton Walsh

  “Evie?”

  “No…” I choked out, mangling the single syllable, and then I couldn’t manage any words at all. I pressed against his chest with feeble hands, my breaths coming in gasps. Riley’s eyes got wide and he pulled back, but it was too late. Even though he wasn’t against me anymore, that didn’t stop what I knew was coming.

  My throat closed up, my chest tightening, and I couldn’t get in enough air. Waves of panic rushed over my body, my skin prickling with heat. Riley was talking, but I couldn’t understand his words, could only hear the cadence of his voice. I couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t control the chattering of my teeth despite my body burning up, and all I could think about, all I could remember was the last time.

  All I ever remembered was the last time.

  In my tiny little box of a room, no space to move even with only a single twin bed in it. Quiet and pitch-black, always dark. Scratchy sheets under my skin, my throat raw and sore from sobbing, from screaming, and then there was always that feeling of weakness. Complete and utter helplessness. That no matter how hard I struggled, how much I thrashed, how loud I screamed, it wouldn’t matter. No one would hear me. No one would come. He’d overpower me anyway.

  He always did.

  “Baby, breathe. Follow what I do. Listen to me, Evie. Listen to my breaths. In and out, in and out. Come on.”

  I blinked away the memories, the rushing heartbeat in my ears finally receding enough that I could try and focus on not just Riley’s voice but also the words he was saying. He was squatting in front of me, his hand a gentle pressure on my back as he murmured bits of encouragement, and I wanted to break down. Right there, on this couch that wasn’t mine with a man who wasn’t mine, either, I wanted to cry. I’d never allowed myself that, not after I’d left. After I’d run all those years ago, I hadn’t broken down. Not once. But now? I wanted to release it all, get rid of it once and for all, because I was so sick of letting it have this hold over me. After so many years, I was still letting this rule my life.

  Letting him rule my life.

  “Listen to my voice, okay? Just focus on me. That’s it. When I used to get these as a kid, Gage would talk me out of them. Tell me stupid stories that I don’t even remember, but just focusing on his voice, listening to him helped. I want you to do that, okay?”

  With the barest move of my head, I nodded, keeping my eyes closed and trying desperately to focus on him, on his words, even through the wheezing rasps of my breaths that echoed as loud as a bullhorn in my ears.

  “Did I ever tell you about the first time I saw you?” He laughed, a breathless, self-deprecating sound. “No, I probably wouldn’t have, because it’d make me sound like a pussy. I’d seen you in school a couple times, just in the hall, and even before I knew anything about you, I was curious. You were hot as hell and so unapproachable with this … fuck-everything-and-everyone attitude. And then one day after school, I went to meet up with my brother, and there you were. Standing over by him and Aaron and the rest of the guys their age, and I hated it. I was pissed as hell that you were already around him, especially when I saw you first. And back then everyone called me Kid, and I’d thought I was fucked. But then you’d looked at me, smiled that smile I love so much—the one where your dimple pops up. Did you know your beauty mark disappears in it when you smile like that?”

  As I listened to the soft cadence of his voice and focused on his words, the buzzing in my ears lessened, the awful, crushing weight on my chest easing enough so I could think back to the day he was talking about. The first day I’d followed a sort of friend there, the first day I’d stepped into that life. And hearing it from Riley’s perspective was so different from how I remembered it. I wanted to tell him I’d felt like a complete poseur, fumbling my way through shit I had no business being involved in. That I’d thought at any second, someone would call me out for being fake, and that would be it, but I couldn’t get my voice to work, couldn’t talk past the anxiety still gripping my throat.

  “But then you came back the next day and then the next and the next, and it was like I’d won the fucking lottery. But of course I didn’t do anything about it. I thought you liked Gage, because you were always hanging around him, but then you asked me to come with you on your first job, and that was it. I was gone. You had me wrapped around your finger from that moment on. I probably shouldn’t tell you that—give you more ammunition against me—but there’s not really a point in denying it.”

  Riley didn’t stop. He never let up, hardly took a moment to even breathe, it seemed like, as he kept talking about the days back in high school, those early months when we’d first started seeing each other. And through everything, I listened with my eyes closed. Through every story, every memory, I tried to control my breaths, matching each inhale and exhale to the slow circle of his hand on my back, and eventually that tightness in my chest lightened until I could drag in lungfuls of air without struggle. I focused on his words and forgot about everything else. Eventually, my teeth stopped chattering, the cold sweats that had swept over my body passed, and I was left with this overwhelming relief that it was over. That I could breathe again.

  And then I was consumed with the shame of having had one in the first place.

  I hated these, fucking hated that I was reduced to that same weak little girl every time a panic attack came up. That I was transported right back to my childhood bedroom, that even after seven years and hundreds of miles, I still couldn’t manage to escape.

  Just like always, after the terror passed, I got pissed. At myself, always at myself more than anything—or anyone. Frustrated and angry that I was still chained to this. That even after all this time, there were still shackles on my ankles, chaining me to a life I didn’t want to live anymore. Chaining me to memories I wanted to leave forever in the past.

  But I knew there was nowhere else for my memories to go. The only way they could manifest, the only way I allowed them to, was in flashbacks and panic attacks. Because I refused to share them, refused to tell anyone anything. It was something I had to keep with me, something I needed to keep inside me, not ever letting it escape.

  Because what if I told and someone didn’t believe me? I couldn’t go through that. Not again.

  “There … that’s it, that’s better.” Riley heaved a deep sigh, still squatting in front of me, then ducked his head even farther, leaning forward so he was in my line of sight. “You feel better?”

  I breathed out an acknowledgment, a squeak of a response, one I hoped he’d take as a yes.

  The hand he had resting on my back still rubbed in soft circles, and I realized that this was the shortest attack I’d ever had. Thanks to his touch and his voice and him.

  “Was that your first panic attack?” he asked.

  Not trusting my voice yet, I just shook my head. I couldn’t even maintain eye contact with him, too embarrassed at everything that had been unearthed in my mind. Almost as if I was terrified he’d be able to read my thoughts, see the memories that had caused the panic attack, and that urge to push it back, bury it again, was strong.

  He wrapped his hand around mine, running his thumb along my wrist. His voice was low, tentative, when he asked, “Was it me? Did I do something?” He swallowed, then asked in a pained voice, “Was I too rough?”

  My throat was dry, and no matter how many times I swallowed, I couldn’t impart any moisture into my mouth. Still, I croaked, “It wasn’t you.” It was such a small offering in comparison to everything he’d done for me, but it was all I had.

  I wanted to tell him that it wasn’t him, it was me. It was my fucked-up childhood and a maelstrom of memories that held me hostage—memories that would never let me go unless I did the same.

  And I wanted so badly to be strong enough to open my mouth and say the words. Finally say the words that had strangled me for so long.

  Maybe, soon, I would be.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  RILEY

  The loft was s
till dark when I jolted awake, a sound startling me to consciousness. I tensed, ready for a fight, so desperately afraid Max had found us, but when I listened, I realized the noises were coming from Evie. After her panic attack, she’d asked to be alone—or as alone as she could be in the loft. So I’d let her take the bed, curled up on her side, her eyes glassy and far away, while I’d settled on the couch ten feet away, my body tight and coiled with the overwhelming urge to go to her. To help her. Hold her and talk to her and beg her to tell me what was going on. Protect her like I hadn’t been able to protect her five years ago.

  I sat up, glancing over the back of the couch and letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. She was on the bed, the covers twisted around her legs. Her head was thrashing back and forth on the pillow, muffled protests leaving her lips. The words spilling from her mouth were unintelligible, but they didn’t need to be comprehensible for me to know she was having a nightmare. The sheer terror was coming off her in waves.

  I didn’t know if this was par for the course for her after a panic attack, if this was something she dealt with all the time. If the attacks had started after she’d left, when she’d moved and changed her name, when she’d first run from Max. I didn’t know anything other than the fact that the one last night hadn’t been her first.

  I pushed off the couch and walked over to her, moving to stand at the side of the bed. Her hair was sprawled out on the pillow, a tangled mess, some strands covering her face, a few caught on her lower lip. She whimpered again, her brow puckered, her face in pure torment. I reached down and brushed my fingers over her shoulder, hoping it would rouse her. When it didn’t, I cupped it and shook it gently. “Evie,” I whispered.

  Just like that, she jolted awake, snapping upright and scrambling to the other side of the bed, her back against the brick wall, her eyes wide as she stared at me.

  Whatever she’d seen in her dreams, it was obvious it had terrified her. Softening my voice, I said, “Baby, it’s me. It’s just me.”

  She was looking at me like she’d never seen me before, almost staring right through me, and I leaned down, staying on the other side of the bed but resting my hands against the mattress and angling my body toward hers, putting myself directly in her line of vision. “Evie. It’s me. It’s Riley.”

  Her eyes came into focus then, and if I hadn’t known her so well, I wouldn’t have noticed the fear still lingering there. And I sure as hell wouldn’t have seen the embarrassment swimming in her eyes, manifesting in the blush blooming on her cheeks. She’d always hated that her emotions showed plain as day on her fair skin, hated that she wasn’t able to disguise that from others when she always put up a front when needed. She thought it put her at a disadvantage, made her an easy target. She’d always hated to show any kind of vulnerability at all.

  “I’m fine,” she said, even though I hadn’t asked. Her voice was scratchy and rough, and she cleared her throat and tried again, “I’m fine. Just a bad dream.”

  Then, as if she didn’t have a care in the world, as if she hadn’t just woken from a nightmare hours after having an intense and debilitating panic attack, she brushed the hair back from her face, carefully extracted the tangled blankets from around her legs, and got off the bed. With a straight spine, head held high, she headed toward the bathroom with slow, measured steps. The door shut softly behind her, and though this departure was less dramatic than the one from earlier, it was essentially the same. That rectangle of wood might as well have been a brick wall stacked ten feet tall with how effectively she ended any and all conversation about what had just happened.

  Except it wasn’t going to work quite as well for her this time.

  Something was up with her. Something was going on besides what little she was telling me, and while I might’ve been willing to let it go at one time, that wasn’t true anymore.

  Not now. Not when I’d seen exactly what keeping this inside had done to her.

  EVIE

  I splashed some cold water on my face before dabbing it off with a hand towel, then I braced my hands on the vanity and tried to just breathe.

  For so long, it felt like I hadn’t been able to breathe.

  I’d known this was coming. After my panic attack, after the talk earlier with Riley and Aaron, I’d known this was what would be awaiting me in my dreams. And yet, try as I might, I hadn’t been able to stop sleep from pulling me under.

  The nightmare—one so familiar and yet one I hadn’t had in a long while—had gripped me by the throat and refused to let me go. And I felt how I always did after one—dirty, sullied, and so sick with the knowledge that what had happened in my nightmare hadn’t lived only there, as part of illusions my mind created.

  It lived in me. Was woven through every thread in my body, in my mind. It was a part of me, a part of who I was, and it always would be. No matter how far I traveled, no matter how much time had passed, it was still with me, buried deep inside.

  If the events of today had shown me anything, it was that I was never going to get away from this. Not if I went on like I had been. Not if I continued to let it eat away at me.

  When I felt like I was collected as much as I was going to be, I reached for the knob and twisted it softly, carefully pulling open the door. And though I knew it was a futile hope, I wished with everything I had that Riley had fallen back asleep. That somehow after everything that had happened—both now and a few hours ago—he’d let this go.

  I should’ve known better.

  The loft was still dark, the barest whispers of dawn brushing over the horizon providing very little light, but I could still see Riley. He was seated on the couch, the breadth of his shoulders so apparent in his white T-shirt, the brightness of it stark against the surroundings.

  I crept my way to the bed, hoping he’d let it go. That he’d take all the signs I’d been giving out and just let it be. Because though I so desperately wanted to be free of this, I didn’t know if I was ready yet.

  Once I was at the side of the bed, ready to climb in, Riley turned his head and looked at me over his shoulder. He didn’t need to say anything. The look in his eyes, steely determination focused directly on me, said more than he ever could’ve with words.

  “What was that, Evie?” he asked. “Not just this, but earlier, too. The panic attack and now the nightmare. At first, I thought it must’ve been about Max, especially with how close we’re getting, with everything you found today. Or Frankie, maybe? Thinking about when he’d kidnapped you … But then I remembered your face when Frankie had broken into your house. Remembered you knocking the fucker out cold, and I realized that couldn’t have been it. Because even when you recognized him, you didn’t have that look of sheer terror on your face like you had when you’d woken up just now.” His eyes didn’t let me go, held me captive in their gaze, and I was defenseless to stop the pull I felt—the pull I still felt toward him. “That wasn’t about Max, was it?”

  Closing my eyes, I exhaled, my shoulders slumping. Still, I wasn’t giving up so easily. Because even realizing that maybe it was time to finally let this go, denying it was second nature to me. “It was nothing. I just get nightmares sometimes.” My voice lacked the conviction it normally held, though, and I knew he could hear it. Even after so long, he’d be able to read me.

  “Evie.” His voice was soft, gentle, and it broke my heart. Because he was being so careful with me, so reverent, just like he’d been when I’d had the panic attack. Just like he’d been through it all—always. And I wanted so badly to accept it from him, let myself fall into his arms and let him help me carry this burden, but I didn’t know how. “C’mere.”

  Almost without thought, my feet took me over to the couch, and I sat next to him, my head tilted down, my eyes focused on my lap as I picked at my fingernails. Riley reached out, his fingers brushing against my jaw to tilt my face up to look at him, and I couldn’t stop the shiver from racking my body at his gentle touch.

  After so long filling the void with nameless men,
it was a relief to realize that he still had this effect on me. That I still reacted this way to him.

  Because it showed I wasn’t all broken. Not entirely. That despite the years of torment, the years of lies and secrets, the years of burying everything deep inside, I still felt. That after the years of the mask I had to wear, the show I had to put on, the endless pretending and masquerading, I was still here. I was still standing.

  And I didn’t have to be silent anymore.

  * * *

  Riley sat there, his arm behind me resting atop the couch cushions. Close, but not touching. I could tell he wanted to reach out to me again, touch me in some way, but he held back, both in his actions and his words. After asking me to come over, he’d sat silently for long minutes while I’d taken deep breaths, trying to work up the courage to give voice to the things I’d never spoken before. The words I’d never allowed to leave my lips. Words I’d never truly allowed myself to believe, not really.

  And that was the scariest part of it all.

  That somehow, if I said it aloud, it made all those years of torment, all those nights of terror, all those days of silence and pain and shame real. And that meant I had nothing to hide behind. If I spoke my truth, I was exposed. Completely and utterly bare.

  Vulnerable in a way I’d never, ever allowed myself to be.

  All this time, I’d held on to the belief that if no one else knew, a small part of me could pretend it hadn’t happened. That, maybe, it had all been a product of my subconscious.

  Except it wasn’t. Deep down, I knew it was real, and it happened. Despite what my mother had told me. Despite the way she’d reacted when I’d tried to tell her something was wrong … something was off. Despite her telling me I was confused. That I must’ve misunderstood the touches, the looks. That none of those things went on. That all those times he’d come into my room when she was at work, all those times he’d held me down, his hand pressed tight against my mouth as tears leaked out of my eyes, dripping down the sides of my face and pooling in my ears hadn’t been real. All those times had just been a product of my imagination.