Fueled (Driven, #2)(42)
A shudder runs through me, those silent bargains I had made to God that night flickering through my head. “On some level, I knew the hope that she might still be alive is what kept me fighting to live.”
“I’m so sorry, Rylee,” he whispers.
“It took so long to be rescued that I got an infection from the bacteria. From what doctors saw, the damage was extensive enough that it essentially ruined my ability to get pregnant.” I clear my throat before continuing. “Max’s mom, Claire, blames me for everything.”
“That’s asinine,” he interjects.
I shrug at his comment, agreeing but still letting guilt make me think differently. “She thought that if we hadn’t been having premarital sex, this would have never happened.”
Colton snorts at the comment. “You were together, what six years?”
I smile softly at him. “Almost seven.”
“And she expected you to be abstinent that long?”
“To each their own beliefs.” I shrug. “We went on the little trip because it was our last chance to get away. I was stressed about everything and the doctor was getting worried about my blood pressure. Max wanted to try and calm me down. To spend some time together before chaos ensued. So she blames me for killing him and her granddaughter.”
“You know that’s not true, Rylee.”
“I know, but it doesn’t take the guilt away. On the anniversary of the death and his birthday she calls me to vent her anger and sadness.” I close my eyes momentarily, fighting away the horrible images that creep into my dreams. “It’s her therapy I guess…and even though it tears me apart, listening to her is the least I can do.” He pulls me farther up his chest and comforts me by wrapping his powerful arms around me and resting his chin on my head. “Oddly enough, meeting you, spending time with you, has allowed me to realize that I’m slowly coming to terms with what happened. Time has allowed me to remember Max and how he was before the crash, not just after. I think the hardest part is the baby.” I exhale brokenly. “I will always cherish the feeling of a life growing inside of me, especially since I’ll most likely never get that chance again.” I nuzzle into the warmth of his neck and sigh. “She would have been two years old.”
I catch the sob before it slips out, but Colton feels it. He squeezes me tighter, his even breathing and ability to listen is just what I need. I feel like a burden has been lifted off of me. All of my skeletons have been exposed. Now he knows. Everything. I cling to him because for some reason, his presence here completes the transformation for me.
I don’t want to be alone anymore and am so sick of being numb. I want to feel again—in the extremes that Colton makes me feel.
I’m ready to live again. Really live. And in this moment I know that it is only Colton that I can imagine sharing these new memories with. I close my eyes and snuggle into him, the sleep I couldn’t find earlier slowly claiming me now. I am just starting to drift off when his voice stirs my eyes open. “When I was six years old,” he says so softly that if it weren’t for the vibration in his chest, I wouldn’t know to listen for his words. He stops for a moment and clears his throat. “When I was six, my—the woman who gave birth to me—beat me so badly that I ended up unconscious and in the hospital.” He exhales loudly while I withhold my breath.
Holy shit! He’s talking and hearing the pain in his voice I know that his wounds are still raw and wide open. Infected. How can you heal from your mother beating the crap out of you? How can you accept love from anyone when the one person that is supposed to protect you from everything is the one who harmed you the most? I’m at a loss for words, so I wrap my arms around him and squeeze before placing a soft kiss on his sternum. “Did the hospital call the police? Social services?” I ask timidly, unsure of how much he is willing to share with me.
I can feel him nod his head in assent. “My mom was the one who called 9-1-1. She told them my dad had done it. That she was the one who walked in and stopped it.” He pauses, and I let him take a minute to compose himself and clear the emotion swimming in his voice. “I’ve never met my dad so...I was too scared of what she’d do to me to say otherwise…too young to know that life could be any better than what I had. She pulled me from school after that. Moved around a lot so social services couldn’t check up on us…” His words drift off and there are so many thoughts running through my head, so many things I want to tell him to console him. That it wasn’t his fault. That love doesn’t have to be that way. That he is a true survivor for coming out of it and thriving. But I know my words will do nothing to take away the years of abuse that he must have endured or lessen its psychological after effects. Besides, I’m sure he’s heard it all from psychiatrists time and time again.
I look up at him and the haunted look in his eyes tells me what he’s just admitted is the least of his childhood nightmares. Do I tell him what he confessed last night in the limo? I struggle with the decision and choose not to. Sharing his past has to be on his terms. I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off before I can begin. “Rylee, please don’t feel sorry for me.”
“I’m...I’m not,” I stutter, knowing that’s the last thing he wants, but he can see right through my lie. How can I not feel sorry for the little boy he once was?