Whisper Me This(87)

When the dust settles, he starts over. “My mom was abused. She couldn’t make decisions about what to do because he was mind-controlling her all the time. It’s hard to make that break.”

“Greg’s not exactly abusive—”

It’s my turn to crash into what I’m about to say. To stop. To feel the new reality strengthen around me.

Greg hit me. He slapped our daughter. He puts me down, controls my decisions, and chases away men who are interested in me.

“It’s Elle,” I say, very low. “I’m afraid if I stand up to him, he’ll take her from me. She’s the best thing in my life, and she’s also my cage.”

“I’m sorry.” He means it. I’m not sure what he’s sorry for, or if maybe he’s just offering up general sympathy. It sounds more like commiseration than pity, and so it’s okay. Especially when he adds, a moment later, “I’ve got my own cage, I suppose. My mother. My sisters.”

It’s my turn to put on X-ray-vision glasses and try to see through him. His turn to flush and avert his eyes.

“How?” I ask. “They’re all grown up.”

“I was the only boy,” he answers, as if that explains everything when it’s not an answer at all.

When I say nothing, he adds, “He beat them all. My mom, my sisters. So now I’m forever making it up to them, I guess. It . . . interferes.”

Math has never been my friend, but even for me something doesn’t add up. “They’re all older than you,” I say, thinking out loud. “Except for Mia. Weren’t you a child? Didn’t he hit you, too?”

He shivers, then scrubs both hands over his face, the way my father does when he can’t think straight. “We moved here, away from Seattle, because of me. Tore the girls away from school and their friends. Because of what I—” His voice cracks. He sucks in a breath, lets it out slowly, and asks, “Why are you here? Tonight? What made you come here?”

“Hey, not so quick. It’s your turn for the grilling.”

“Could we talk about the weather? Or the Seahawks, maybe. That’s a fine topic of conversation.” His face is still in his hands.

I put my hands over his and draw them down and away. He keeps his eyes cast down. I trace the scar on his forehead with my finger. And then the bump on his nose. He shivers beneath my touch, but doesn’t move.

“This,” I say. “Your father did this.”

“Don’t.” He grips my hand in one of his and pulls it away from his face, letting it rest against his chest. I can feel his heart thudding against his ribs. “This is where angels fear to tread, Maisey. You don’t want to go there.”

He’s right. I can feel the anger crawling under his skin, the way it bunches up his muscles, speeds his breath.

“Greg slapped Elle this morning,” I blurt out, as a change of subject. “For no good reason. He wasn’t even angry. He did it because he could.”

Tony draws in a breath. Holds it. Lets it all out in one long whoosh. “Told you he was a bastard.”

“He wants to take Elle back with him, and she’s not going. So we are hiding at your house. Also, we are going in search of my ever-so-pleasant sister tomorrow, and Elle was determined to ask you along as bodyguard.”

“Consider me hired.”

“Just like that? No lecture? No advice?” My hand is still trapped under his, the fingers splayed over his pectoral muscle, the heat of his palm almost enough to burn.

“Would you change your mind if I did lecture?” His head bends down over mine, so close his breath stirs the fine hair in front of my ear.

“Probably not.”

His lips graze my cheek. I can feel the tension in his body, his muscles rock-hard. Both of us are trembling.

“This is a very bad idea, Maisey. We are—”

I silence him with my lips against his. Lightly, at first, a brush, a taste, and then his arms go around me and he pulls me in hard, our lips moving into a kiss so deep it makes me dizzy.

He’s the one that breaks away, holding me by the shoulders and pushing me back to arm’s length. Both of us breathe like we’ve been running a marathon. I think there are tears on my cheeks, but I can’t quite feel my face.

“I can’t do this.” Tony’s voice is harsh. His hands are firm, inexorable, but there are no fingers digging into me. No pain, except for what is breaking open in my heart.

“Why, exactly?”

“All the reasons,” he says. “Greg being one of them.”

He’s right, of course. What was I thinking? Shame heats my body.

“I should go,” I say, only I can’t, because Tony is still holding on to my shoulders.

“When do we leave on this trip?”

“I thought you just said—”

“I can be your bodyguard,” he says. Pauses. Gives me a half smile. “And you can be my long-lost pal.”

It takes me a minute to catch the song reference. I run my fingers through my hair. Focus on breathing normally. He’s not trying to get rid of me altogether. I can do this. “All right, Paul Simon, but don’t you dare start calling me Betty.”

He laughs, but there’s no flash of little-boy mischief. He looks like I feel—deflated, like a punctured balloon. The treehouse isn’t magical anymore. Just a box up in a tree. As I work my way down the ladder, gravity takes possession of me. My body feels heavier with every rung, so that by the time my feet touch grass, I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk back to the porch.