The Summer We Fell (The Summer, #1)(32)

I slowly exhale. “The thing that happened this fall—”

“I know it’s hard, watching everyone else get something you’d like for yourself. I mean, it’s hard

for me too. But that’s what will make it so special when—”

“Danny,” I say, cutting him off because I can’t listen to another word of this, “I’m not a virgin.”

We’re nearly back to the house. He comes to a dead stop, staring at me, his face blank with shock.

“What? ” he asks with a small, nervous laugh.

He wants it to be a joke. He assumes it’s a joke. That makes me feel worse.

“You never asked me, so it’s not like I’ve been lying to you about it,” I whisper. “You just assumed, and I let you assume it because I was worried you’d judge me.”

Even in the dim light, I don’t miss the way his shock is quickly turning to disgust. “With who?” he asks. “I thought I was your first boyfriend.”

I wince. “You were. You are. It doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t understand. You were fifteen when we met. How could you have already done that?”

I could probably strip a lot of the judgment from his voice if I told him the truth, but that would just make things worse.

“It’s complicated.”

His eyes flash. “You should have told me. That was a gift I was saving for you, and I thought you were saving it for me too.”

“Danny, I’m not the outlier here. You are. I’m fine we’re not having sex if that’s something you value, and yes, I should have told you, but it’s bullshit for you to act like I’m intentionally depriving you of something.”

He slaps both hands to his face in frustration. “Well forgive me for not handling it perfectly, Juliet.

I’ve just discovered you’ve been lying to me the entire time we’ve been together and, yes, I’m mad. It feels like you’ve stolen something that was supposed to be mine.”

Fuck this. He’s mad? Fuck this. “Yeah? Well, it was stolen from me, too, Danny. I’m not thrilled with it either.”

He pales. “You were raped?”

My eyes fall closed. I don’t know. I don’t know if I can call it rape. It wasn’t like something you see in a TV movie. I wasn’t grabbed by a guy in a face mask and dragged into the woods. I don’t know what to call it.

“Sometimes you go along with things because you know fighting back is useless. I was smaller than he was, and I knew he wasn’t going to stop so I just—” I shrug. I gave in. That’s all there was to it. I’d like to claim now that I’d fight, but I probably wouldn’t. I’ve seen how that works out too.

After a moment, he reaches for my hand. “So it was just the one time?”

“No,” I reply, my teeth grinding. He still thinks he’s the one who deserves to be consoled, reassured. He wants to believe that I’m gently used, at most.

“More than once doesn’t sound like rape to me,” he says, releasing my hand once more.

I grit my teeth. “I never said it was.”

“You couldn’t have been all that unwilling if it kept happening. Did you even try to stay out of the

guy’s path?”

My shoulders sag. This would be so much easier if I actually believed I was innocent, if defending myself didn’t feel like a lie. If you say, “No” to someone, again and again, but you sometimes responded to what he did, can you still claim you weren’t at fault? I don’t know. “You know nothing about it,” I whisper.

“Then tell me who it was!” he shouts. “Tell me how you possibly couldn’t have avoided this guy.”

It feels like the end of everything. This is a closely guarded secret, the thing I hate about myself most. I’m not sure I trust Danny with it, but I’m not sure I trust anyone with it.

“Because it was Justin.”

He goes completely rigid.

“Your stepbrother?” His mouth falls open, his voice cracking with disgust. His reaction is exactly why I never tried to tell people after that first failed attempt. When your own mother, the person who’s known you longer than anyone else, suggests you’re a liar or brought it on yourself, you know better than to continue looking for a sympathetic ear.

I nod and he stares at me. “Isn’t he…isn’t he, like, in his late twenties? That’s not even legal.”

A miserable laugh bubbles inside me. “Neither is forcing someone to have sex with you after she says, ‘No’, Danny.”

“Why didn’t you tell someone?” he demands. “Why didn’t you tell, like, your mom, or a counselor or someone?”

My eyes sting. I knew this part would come.

“I did tell my mom, and she accused me of making it up. And I didn’t tell anyone else because I figured I’d get blamed for it, just like you’re blaming me now.”

I wait for him to deny he’s doing it. He doesn’t.

“Was it going on when—” He stops, flinching. “Was it going on when we were dating?”

He’s asking if I was cheating on him. Was there more I could have done to stop it? Maybe. I can’t claim to have exhausted every resource…I expected the worst of anyone who might have helped me, and I still do. But the possibility will always exist that I could have stopped it if I’d just done things differently. I’ll never know for sure.