One Little Dare - Whitney Barbetti Page 0,40

I knew the neighbors would call our landlord and complain—and he knew it too. So he took off. One week later, his face was on the news. He’d murdered one of his girlfriends. Strangled her.”

“That’s heavy.” Tori’s hand was warm, reassuring as she squeezed my hand. “Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“How did your mom handle that?”

I closed my eyes for a moment, picturing my mom the way I always remembered her—brown, frizzy curly hair, eyes so green they made one do a double-take, and smile that could warm even the coldest hearts. Which was probably why my dad had loved her, in his own fucked up way. “She never talked about it—at least not with me. She was strong through it all, but in her own quiet way. If she caught me watching the news during his trial, she’d switch the channel like she was changing channels during a commercial. It was background noise for her, I guess.”

“She sounds brave.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, with a smile I knew didn’t reach my eyes. “She was.”

Tori’s eyes changed at my use of ‘was.’ “Did she die?”

“A few years ago,” I said, nodding. “Cancer. Seemed pretty shitty, after all the bullshit life had handed her. But, just like my dad, she kept it mostly to herself. She changed the subject when her sickness came up.”

“Liam, I’m so sorry.”

I took a breath. “Yeah. Sorry, I kind of had a two-for-one there. So, your turn,” I said in a moment of embarrassment, for having turned the conversation so heavily.

She looked me over, her eyes contemplative. After a moment of quiet, she said, “When I was sixteen, I had a crush on my English teacher. And crushes themselves are innocent enough, but he knew. And…” Her hand in mine went slack and I began to rub circles into her palm. “One thing led to another. I guess we had an affair.”

I let that sink in a moment. “You were sixteen?”

She nodded. “He was married.” She cringed. “I didn’t know. And his wife found out. She went crazy on me, keyed my car, slashed my tires, followed me home a few times. And, well, it sucked.”

That was a lot. And I could see the trauma she still carried from it, the blame she misplaced on herself. “You were sixteen,” I repeated. “And he was your teacher. That’s not an affair. That’s immoral and illegal and a whole host of other shit. That was his fault.”

“I know,” she said, waving a hand like she was dismissing what I said. “It’s embarrassing. I never even told my best friend.”

Which told me that she probably hadn’t told school officials. “Have you told anyone?”

“My dad.” She blew out a breath. “He went over to the teacher’s house and I don’t know what was said, but the teacher resigned, and I never saw him again.”

“He was never charged.”

She took in a deep breath. “I had this reputation in high school. People labeled me a slut because I dated a lot.”

“Everyone dates a lot in high school.”

“I dated a lot. I didn’t sleep with them all—”

“It wouldn’t matter if you had.”

That gave her pause. “Still. I dated a lot. And I didn’t want it getting out that I’d had sex with a teacher.”

I wanted to protest, to tell her that it wasn’t sex; it was abuse. But I didn’t want to keep interrupting her.

“So, my dad did whatever he needed to do to protect me. No one knew. I didn’t want to tell Hollis—my best friend. I didn’t want her to think differently of me, I guess. It was easier to keep it to myself.”

“Was it?” I couldn’t imagine holding onto that kind of secret for eight years.

“I think…” she said, her hand coming back to life in mine, “that I tell myself things are easy when they’re hard. Because I have this desire to prove to myself that I can make it through them.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t confide in someone.”

“I did. My dad. And I am, with you.” She gave me a soft smile. “It’s weird, but I think it makes it easier telling you because you have no biases. You didn’t know me in high school.”

“I wouldn’t say I have no biases,” I said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I think I have plenty of bias toward one enigmatic woman in particular.”

“Well, if you’d known me in high school, you’d probably feel different.”

“Doubtful,” I said. “I’m glad you had your dad. He sounds like a good guy.”

“He is. Was. I don’t know.”

“Was?”

“He’s not dead.

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