steed," I said, going full geek and doing a little bow that had him chuckling as he climbed on the bike, waiting for me to get on behind him.
And this time, there was no hesitation as my legs slid against him, as my arms tightened over his chest, as my head rested on his shoulders, and the bike lurched away.
Not fifteen minutes later, we were sitting in a back corner of a pretty seedy-looking pizza shop with an entire plain pie sitting between us, gleaming with grease, still too hot to touch, let alone eat.
"Okay, babe," Huck said, passing me my soda. "Give it to me," he said, leaning back in his seat, one arm resting over the top of the back of the booth.
My heartbeat skipped faster.
My palms were sweaty.
And my stomach wobbled at the idea of doing it.
But then I opened my mouth.
And I gave him all of it.
The reason for their hatred of me.
My PTSD.
My seizures.
It all dated back to one single incident.
One single day.
The worst one of my life.
Chapter Ten
Harmon
My stomach always tensed when my step-father was the one picking me up from school. Then I felt guilty about not being excited since it always made Jones's day.
But my step-father never made it seem like he wanted me there, just took me along with him because he had to. He asked Jones about his day, about how much homework he had, about what he wanted to get for dinner. But he never asked me the same questions. So I ended up sitting right there beside him in the front seat, feeling completely ignored.
Because that was exactly what I was, what I had always been.
I had been Jones's age now—six—when my mom married a man I'd never even met before. She'd told me that I would need to call him Dad or Father. And that our lives would be changing for the better.
I was young, but old enough to know that nothing felt better after we moved into his big, cold house, where strangers did things my mom and I used to do together—folding laundry, sweeping the floors, making dinner.
My days used to be filled with laughter and music and one-on-one time with my mother. But when we moved into our new house, I spent most of my time alone, getting yelled at by my step-father when I was too noisy, when I left toys lying around, when I was upset because I had gotten hurt.
Nothing I ever did was good enough.
"He's just not used to little kids, Harmon," my mother said, giving me a tight smile as she sat down on my bed, brushing my hair out after my bath. She'd felt different those days too, with her big belly pressing into my back. "I think having the baby might help teach him about how to be a father. Which will be good for you too."
She was right and wrong.
He did learn to be a good father to Jones, spoiling him, doting over him, parading him out when there were dinner parties so everyone could see his son.
But things didn't change for me.
I got the same cold, distant treatment. When there were dinner parties, I was lectured to stay in my room, not to come down and bother anyone, even as Jones ran around, knocking over catering tables as he went.
Still, I loved Jones. When our father wasn't home, I practically had him all to myself to play with. And while he couldn't play the same way I could, he made my little life a lot less lonely.
Maybe I should have resented him more for being the golden child while I was locked away like an ugly secret. But he'd always been too lovable to hate.
As I got older, I grew to understand that Jones was more loved simply because he shared blood with our father, that I was resented because I didn't, but they still had to take care of me.
I expected that day to be like some of the others, when we were picked up, that we would go for drive-through—because Jones's favorite things in the world were hamburgers and fries—and then end up at the ice cream place. I would get none of the attention, but I would get to eat some treats, so it wasn't a total loss.
But after we left the fast food place, we didn't take the usual turn toward the ice cream place, or the park, or even the beach.