Split(47)

He opens his mouth, then quickly closes it and shakes his head. “No.”

I fold my arms around my stomach, feeling a sudden chill in the breeze. His mother was abusive; that much is true. I can see why he’s avoided my questions about her. Did she abandon him rather than die like I originally thought?

To think her abuse was so severe Lucas became a completely different person to protect himself is tragic beyond comprehension.

“What happened that night, Shyann?” He sounds so broken, as if he already knows the answer and he’s apologizing for it.

“You were at a bar.”

His wide eyes turn to me. “I was at a bar?” He drops his head into his hands and groans.

“Gage was. He punched a guy I grew up with.” No need to go into details; something tells me the less information for Lucas to process the better.

His right hand flexes.

“I didn’t know what was going on when you didn’t show up for work this morning. I told my dad you were sick to keep him from coming to check on you. Hope that’s okay.”

“Why would you do that?” he whispers, then turns toward me. “Why would you protect me?”

“Lucas? Have you ever heard the words dissociative identity disorder?”

“I think so.”

“It’s an identity disorder. Some call it multiple personality disorder.”

His ears get red. He tucks his chin and locks his hands behind his head. “If you’re telling me I’m crazy, don’t bother. I already know.”

“You never got help—”

“I tried. He’d never let me.” He studies the tops of the trees. “Don’t you see? I can never be trusted because he’ll always be part of me.”

I blink, memories of Gage, his hate-filled stare, his threats, and that punch he delivered that hardly seemed to faze him.

“Do you want to hurt people?”

“Of course not.”

“Maybe you have more control than you think.” I shrug, as if it’s as simple as that, hoping he feels encouraged even though I haven’t the slightest idea if it’s true. But I have to believe his goodness would win out.

I run my sweaty palms against my thighs, embarrassed to admit that maybe he’s not all that different from me. When I lost my mom, a part of me died with her and I became someone else to avoid feeling the pain—career focused, selfish, hell-bent on leaving the memories behind no matter the cost.

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

I lean over and place my hand on his arm, begging him to look at me. He doesn’t. “Then explain it.”

“Why did I smell like perfume?” There’s a hardness in his voice I’ve never heard before and I don’t need to ask to know he’s talking about Gage.

“He showed up at Pistol Pete’s. I saw him kissing a girl and—”

A sound like that of a dying animal falls from his lips and he grips the back of his head. I can’t imagine how terrifying it would be to have your body taken over and wake up having no idea what you’d done.

By the slump of his shoulders, I’d say he’s assuming the worst. “Nothing happened, Lucas. I’m pretty sure you two never made it past second base.”

“This is wrong . . .”

“It’s a mountain town, bar hookups and fights are as common as four-wheel drive.”

“. . . could’ve really hurt someone . . .”

“Lucas, you’re overreacting.”

“. . . so much worse.” He freezes and peers up at me, his gray eyes shining with sadness. “You were there.”

My face flames and his eyes dart to my cheeks, then widen. “Did I . . . Gage, did he . . .”

I open my mouth to tell him that he kissed me, that his hands roamed my body with a force that managed to terrify and excite me in equal parts. The words dance on the back of my tongue, ache to confess just how much I want him to touch me again, just how much I long for another possessive kiss that robs me of coherent thought.

Whatever he sees in my expression causes him to recoil.

“I gotta go.” He pushes up fast and takes a retreating step before turning back to me. He seems to struggle with whether or not to help me up, but eventually gives me his hand and pulls me to my feet. “Thanks for the food. Tell your dad I’ll have that carving to him by the end of the week. I’ll finish it at home . . . I mean, your mom’s home . . . I—”

“Don’t worry about that. My dad cares about you. If you need help—”

“No!” The power in his voice seems to scare him and makes my heart leap. “Please.” He gets close and the proximity makes me want to pull him into my arms. “Don’t tell anyone.”

The dark fury that was in his eyes that night is replaced with painful innocence, a vulnerability that makes my arms desperate to soothe. He’s broken, achingly beautiful, and—

“Shy.”

His calling of my nickname rips me from my thoughts.

Eyes, smoke-gray and pleading. “Please.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

He exhales hard and his shoulders slump. “Thank you. I’ll . . . uh . . . I’ll see you around.” He jogs back to the work site, and I give myself a moment to regain my composure.