Penelope Douglas - Until You

“I idolized him for about a month,” she continued. “Long enough to get pregnant and get stuck with him.” And then she looked at me again. “But I was young and immature. I thought I knew everything. Drinking was my escape, and I abandoned you. You never deserved that. When I saw Tate trying to make you happy that night, I let her. The next morning you weren’t in your room. When I looked out your window, I could see you both passed out in her bed, just sleeping. So I let it be. For years, I knew you were sneaking over there to sleep, and I let it go, because she made you happy when I failed.”

The purest, truest, most perfect thing in my world, and I’d dumped pile upon pile of shit on top of her for years.

A knot of realization worked its way into my head, and I felt like punching my fist through a fucking wall.

“Jesus Christ.” I combed my hands through my hair, my eyes squeezing shut as I whispered to myself. “I’ve been so horrible to her.”

My mother, like Mr. Brandt, probably knew nothing of what I’d put Tate through, but she did know that we weren’t friends anymore.

“Honey,” she spoke up, “you’ve been horrible to everyone. Some of us deserved it, some of us not. But Tate loves you. She’s your best friend. She’ll forgive you.”

Will she?

“I love her.” It was the most honest thing I’d confided in my mother in a long time.

My father could kiss his own ass, and my mother and I would survive, for better or worse. But Tate?

I needed her.

“I know you love her. And I love you,” she said as she reached out and touched my cheek. “You’re not letting your father or me take anything else from you, do you understand?”

Tears burned my eyes, and I couldn’t hold them back.

“How do I know I’m not going to be like him?” I whispered.

My mother was quiet as she studied me, and then her eyes narrowed.

“Tell her the truth,” she instructed. “Trust her with everything, especially your heart. Do that, and you’re already not like your father.”

Yesterday lasts forever.

Tomorrow comes never.

I looked down at the blank piece of printer paper, the words of my tattoo staring back at me.

Now I knew what they meant.

I was a huge, fucking idiot. That was for sure.

Not only had I let myself get tied up by the bullshit my father doled out, but I’d willingly let my hate control me, wrongfully thinking that it made me stronger.

Leaning down, I placed the paper on my thigh and scribbled another line.

Until you.

Feeling the weight lift off of my shoulders, I nailed it to the tree between Tate’s and my houses and grabbed the rest of the stuff off of the ground.

Backing up, I looked at the huge Maple, not only bright with the red and gold leaves that had not yet fallen, but with the hundreds of white lights and several lanterns I’d hung.

It was her birthday today, and all I could think about was how she’d brightened my day when I was eleven. I wanted to return the favor and show her that I remembered.

Assuming she was out with K.C., I hung out in her bedroom, leaning on the rails outside of her open French doors and just stared at the folder I’d placed on her bed.

The folder with all of the proof of what my father had done to me.

She already seen it, of course, when she snooped in my room.

But she hadn’t heard it from me yet.

A door closed downstairs, and my back straightened.

I breathed deliberately—slow and calm—but my body heated up and my heart raced.

Jesus.

I was fucking nervous.

Will what I tell her be good enough? Will she understand?

Tate walked slowly into her room, and I immediately gripped the rails behind me to stop myself from rushing her.

Her eyebrows were slightly drawn together as she looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

Her hair hung loose, and she wore dark, faded jeans and a short-sleeved, black blouse. Too many clothes, but I liked that about Tate. She never revealed too much, and she reminded me of a present that I couldn’t wait to unwrap. She looked sexy as hell, and I had a hard time taking my mind off of the bed in the room.

I gestured to the folder on the bed. “Is that what you were looking for in my room last night?”

She kept her head level but her eyes shot down, and a shade of pink covered her cheeks.

Come on, Tate. Don’t be a wuss.

It actually pleased me that she’d gone snooping. She cared.

“Go ahead.” I nodded towards the folder. “Take a look.”

She probably hadn’t gotten much time to see them the other night.

Her gaze shifted up to mine for a second, and she looked like she was considering if she should indulge her curiosity.

But she took the offer.

Slowly, she opened the folder and splayed out the photos. Her hands shook as she picked one up and stared at it, almost not breathing.

“Jared,” she groaned, lifting her hand to her mouth. “What is this? What happened to you?”

I dropped my eyes to the floor and ran a hand through my hair.

This was harder than I’d thought it would be.

Trust her with everything, especially your heart.

“My father.” I let out a long, quiet breath. “He did that to me. And to my brother.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, and her mouth opened a little.

Tate didn’t know I had a brother. Unless her father had told her, and he never said anything that wasn’t necessary.

“The summer before freshman year, I was hyped up to spend my whole summer hanging out with you, but as you remember, my dad called out of the blue and wanted to see me. So I went. I hadn’t seen him in more than ten years, and I wanted to know him.”

She sat down on the bed, listening.

“When I got there,” I continued, “I found out that my dad had another son. A kid from another relationship. His name is Jaxon, and he’s only about a year younger than me.”

Jax flashed in my mind, twelve years old and scrawny. He’d had dirt on his face, and his dark hair was short then.

“Go on,” she whispered, and I let out the breath I’d been holding.

And I told her the whole damn story.

About how my father used us to make money for him—selling drugs, breaking into houses, delivering shit.

Of how he hurt Jax and then started hurting me when I refused to do his dirty work.

Of how we were victimized by the lowlifes hanging round the house, and I let her see the scars on my back that my father had given me with a belt buckle.

I also told her of how my father hated us and my mother abandoned us, and then of how I abandoned Jax and left him with my father when he refused to leave with me.

Tate’s eyes got red and pooled with tears that she tried to hold back.

I released all of the sickness in my head and the crud that had blackened my heart, and I wanted to wipe away the tears that she cried for me.

She’d always cared. She’d always loved me.

I’d treated her worse than a dog for three years, and she still cried for me.

I felt the ache in my throat as I looked at her, her face twisted up in sadness, and I knew she had every right not to forgive me.

But I knew she would.

Maybe that’s the thing I’d been missing about love.

You don’t withhold it or partition it out when it’s deserved.

You can’t control it like that.

After I told her the ugly story, I sat there next to her, waiting for her to say something.

I didn’t know what she was thinking, but she let me speak, and she listened.

“Have you seen your dad since?” she finally asked.

Your dad. The words were so foreign. I referred to him as my father only to identify the twenty-two year old man that preyed on a seventeen year old girl, and I was the result.

“I saw him today,” I told her. “I see him every weekend.”

Which was true. Even though I technically didn’t get my last visit.

“What?” Her blue eyes went wide. “Why?

“Because life’s a bitch, that’s why.” I exhaled a bitter laugh.

After the punch I threw last week, the judge decided I’d fulfilled my commitment and let me off the hook today. I saw my father from a distance this morning, but I hadn’t seen the last of him. I knew that.

Tate looked at me, and drank in everything I said. I told her about the trouble after she left for France—how I missed her, how Jax got hit by his foster dad, and how the judge cut me a deal.

I got up and walked back over to the French doors, leaving her on the bed to absorb everything.

“So that’s where you go,” she finally said. “To Stateville Prison in Crest Hill.”

Crest Hill?

She must’ve seen other stuff in my room when she was snooping the last nightt. My mother had asked me to save receipts for the motels and gas for tax time. Shit was scattered all over my room.

“Yeah, every Saturday,” I said with a nod. “Today was my last visit, though.”

“Where is your brother now?”

Safe.

“He’s in Weston. Safe and sound with a good family. I’ve been seeing him on Sundays. But my mom and I are trying to get the state to agree to let him live with us. She’s been sober for a while. He’s almost seventeen, so it’s not like he’s a kid.”

I wanted him to meet her, and if my mother was successful with the lawyer, then he’d be living with us sooner rather than later.

She got off the bed and walked over to me by the French doors. “Why didn’t you tell me all of this years ago?” she asked. “I could’ve been there for you.”

I wish I’d let you.

That was still something I was going to have a hard time with. Tate holding me up—or trying to—made this room feel ten times too small.

Small steps, baby.

I combed my hand through my hair and leaned back on the railing. “When I finally got home that summer, you were my first thought. Well, other than doing what I could to help Jax,” I added. “I had to see you. My mom could go to hell. All I wanted was you. I loved you,” I whispered the last part, my stomach knotted with regret.

I tightened my fists, thinking back to that day when I’d changed everything. “I went to your house, but your grandma said you were out. She tried to get me to stay. I think she saw that I didn’t look right. But I ran off to find you, anyway. After a while, I found myself at the fish pond in the park.” I finally looked at her. “And there you were…with your dad and my mom, playing the little family.”

I understood the confusion in her eyes. Even now, I knew it was a sad series of small events that I took too much to heart. I was wrong.

“Jared—” she started, but I stopped her.

“Tate, you didn’t do anything wrong. I know that now. You just have to understand my mindset. I had been through hell. I was weak and hurting from the abuse. I was hungry. I’d been betrayed by the people I was supposed to be able to count on: my mom who didn’t help when I needed her, my dad who hurt me and my helpless brother.” I took a deep breath. “And then I saw you with our parents, looking like the happy, sweet family. While Jaxon and I were in pain and struggling to make it through every day in one piece, you got to see the mother that I never had. Your dad took you on picnics and for ice cream while mine was whipping me. I felt like no one wanted me and that life moved on without me. No one cared.”

That day and the weeks preceding were too much, too fast, and all of a sudden I was a different kid.

“You became a target, Tate. I hated my parents, I was worried about my brother, and I sure as hell couldn’t rely on anyone but myself. When I hated you, it made me feel better. A lot better.”

I saw her jaw harden, and I knew that this wasn’t easy for her to take in.

But I kept going.

“Even after I realized that nothing was your fault, I still couldn’t stop trying to hate you. It felt good, because I couldn’t hurt who I wanted to hurt.”

Silent tears fell down her face again, and—goddammit—I didn’t want Tate crying over me anymore.

We’d had a hell of a lot of good growing up, and I wanted it back.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, taking her face in my hands, hoping like hell she didn’t punch me. “I know I can make this up to you. Don’t hate me.”

She shook her head. “I don’t hate you. I mean…” she shot me a little scowl, “I’m a little pissed, but mostly I just hate the wasted time.”