Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(67)

I recoiled, both of my hands flying to my mouth to smother a gasp.

But Duane was still talking and my greedy ears kept listening, trapped by my own shock. “How he voluntarily handed himself over and they beat him so bad, he lost his chance at scholarships, college. How he was in the hospital for months and rehab for months after that. All of it.”

Stepping back, I pressed myself against the wall, needing the solid support as I stifled something that tried to burst from my chest.

“Even that tattoo, why he has it, what it’s covering up.”

“Telling her about the beating is enough, Duane. No need to traumatize Claire with graphic and gruesome details.”

“It’s important that she know, and understand, what he did for her, the extent of it. It changed him. He’s never been the same after.”

Someone grunted, maybe Cletus, and he said, “You and I are in agreement on the fundamentals.”

And then he said something else, but my brain couldn’t comprehend because it was racing, frantically searching through what I knew to be true. Or what I’d thought I knew to be true and what might be truth and who said what and when and—

They beat him?

I shut my eyes as I imagined it, gory details and all, my back sliding down the wall as my body shook with a sudden wave of nausea and anguish. My legs could not support my weight and the weight of this new reality. I curled forward and buried my face in my hands and the past rose up like a tidal wave, submerging me, choking me, and washing away everything I thought was true.





After I dashed upstairs and finished crying like it was my job, I lay on my bed and allowed myself to imagine it. I allowed myself to think about Billy’s broken body. If I didn’t, if I kept pushing it away, I’d drive myself insane.

Once I’d done that and accepted what he’d done for me, how young he’d been, how brave and noble, and what he’d lost, I cried some more. I mourned for him, for that boy I knew and loved, and then I mourned for the man he’d become and all the burdens he carried still.

Scenes from my past materialized next. I catalogued all the decisions I’d made that had been flat-out wrong, and misguided, and based on lies. I mourned for myself too.

I mourned for that girl of fifteen, who thought the boy she loved didn’t love her back.

I mourned for that girl of eighteen, who felt so obligated to someone that she let him touch her whenever and however he wanted.

I mourned for that girl of nineteen, marrying a boy who’d convinced himself and everyone that he loved her while she convinced herself she’d work every day to be worthy of his love. Maybe Ben hadn’t known what Billy did for me, maybe he did. Either way, he’d lied to me. Regardless, the truth was, he didn’t know how to love. He only knew how to possess.

And then, I buried her. All versions of her. All her misery and pathetic cowardice and decisions based on fear and false information. I was done with that. I wouldn’t resurrect her.

But laying her to rest didn’t mean I lacked curiosity, the need to know why, to understand. The questions—so many questions—remained, the most important and pressing being: why hadn’t Billy told me the truth?

I wasn’t a saint. Mistakes were made. I’d tried my best with the knowledge available to me and, even now, I believed Billy had tried his best too. There had to be an explanation. There had to be a reason.

When I thought about all our encounters, all the moments I’d pushed Billy away—implicitly or explicitly—there’d been a justification each time. What I owed Ben. Safety. My promise to Bethany. My feelings of worthlessness. Believing, deep down, Billy deserved better. Right or wrong, good or bad, there’d always been a reason.

In my heart, I felt certain Billy had justified the lie to himself each time he’d actively decided to withhold the truth. He had his reasons, and I did not want to believe any of those reasons were spite. Nevertheless, Duane was right, it hurt. It hurt so badly.

And that’s where I was—hurting, confused, questioning—when I heard a soft knock on my door.

Licking my dry lips, I swiped at my eyes. They were dry, but I did need to clear my throat before saying, “Come in.”

The door opened and I knew it was him. I didn’t need to look up. I felt it.

“Hey,” he said. A second later, the door closed and he walked toward me. I could see him in my peripheral vision.

Bracing myself, and hating that I had to, I took my time sitting up on the bed, giving him a small smile, but withholding my eyes. “Hey.”

“I’ve been waiting for you. Did you fall asleep?” He sat next to my legs, placing his hand on my knee, his thumb drawing a circle over my kneecap. Then he stopped. “Have you been crying?”

I nodded, folding my arms. “Billy, I need to tell you something.” I’d debated how best to do this, how to ask him without confronting him. I wasn’t angry. Maybe I should have been, but I wasn’t. I was hurt and tired of feeling wrung out.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“It’s about something that happened a long time ago.” Some instinct had me covering his hand with mine. “And I hadn’t planned on telling you. But something happened today, and I realized it’s better to be honest and potentially hurt the person you care most about than protect them with secrets and lies.”