“What kind of music do you like to listen to?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts.
My cheeks feel hotter and I hope he doesn’t notice. Thank goodness the restaurant is relatively dark. “Are we playing twenty questions now?”
He shrugs, looking faintly embarrassed. “Just trying to get to know you.”
I immediately feel like a jerk. I shouldn’t be so defensive. He’s not out to get me. Not out to dig up any lurid facts, and I have a ton of them. “Is it wrong to admit I like anything that’s popular on the radio?”
“You still listen to the radio?” He’s teasing. I can tell by the glint in his eyes.
“Sometimes.” When he just looks at me I admit, “Fine, I love the iHeartRadio app.”
He laughs. “Who’s your favorite band or singer?”
“Don’t laugh,” I warn him, and he holds his hands up defensively. “You’re going to laugh.”
“I won’t,” he says solemnly.
“Promise?”
“Promise.” He swallows, I see his throat move, and something washes over me at his words, the way he’s watching me, his expression serious, his eyes so incredibly dark. I feel like we’ve said these words to each other before, though in a much more serious manner. I’m having a total déjà vu moment.
It makes me think of Will and for some inexplicable reason, I feel almost unfaithful to him, sharing this night, these words, with Ethan.
“I really, really love . . .” My voice drifts as I draw out the moment. “Katy Perry.”
His lips twitch, like he’s trying to hold in the laugh that wants to escape, and I point at him. “You promised.”
Again he holds up his hands defensively. “I did. No laughing allowed.”
I shake my head and drop my hands into my lap, clutching at the white cloth napkin still lying there. “It’s lame, right?”
“Never.” His lips twitch again.
I ignore the twitch and decide to tell the truth. “I just find her songs so empowering. Like ‘Roar.’ She wants people to hear her roar, you know?” Now I just sound ridiculous, but I really do find power in words. Written words. Books and poems and songs. Since I’ve always felt like I have no power, I like to look for it in other places. That way I do feel strong, at least for a little while.
However temporary it may be.
“Has anyone ever heard you roar?” he asks, his deep voice low and quiet, sending a scattering of goosebumps across my skin.
I slowly shake my head. “Not really. I’m pretty quiet.”
“You’re not quiet with me.”
His observation makes me ponder. He’s right. When I’m with him, he asks just the right things to open me up. I came into this tonight on the defensive, too. I had no plans on revealing so much. I figured we could eat dinner, talk about the weather and current events, and be done with it.
This is what happens when you’ve never been on a date before. You have no clue what you’re supposed to do, what you should say, what the other person will say. I have no control over this moment and panic licks at my belly, reminding me that the very last thing I want to do is lose control.
I decide to ignore what he said and talk about my other favorite Katy Perry songs. “ ‘Dark Horse’ is a total favorite, too.”
He cocks a brow, looking a little arrogant, a little skeptical. It’s a good look for him. “Really.”
I nod. “And I really loved ‘Teenage Dream.’ ”
He frowns. “What?”
“Katy’s song from a few years ago. ‘Teenage Dream.’ ” God, did I love that song. I would sing it at the top of my lungs when I knew I was alone, which wasn’t often. I’d sing it in the shower, murmur it under my breath as I sat with Brenna or Mom in the car. The words just got to me, because even though I was a teenager when it came out, I was in no way close to living the teenage dream of letting a boy put his hands on me in my skintight jeans.
I yearned for something like that whenever I heard that song, even though the idea scared me to death.
“Ah yeah, I remember that song.” He smiles. “They played it to death.”
“I still love it.”
“Did they used to call you that? When you were younger?” When I frown, he continues. “Katie.”
“Oh.” I haven’t heard anyone call me that in a long time. I didn’t even put it together, that Katy Perry and I share the same first name. “Yes, when I was a child.”
“No one calls you Katie now?”
I shake my head.
“Kat?”
I wrinkle my nose.
“Kathy?”
“Ew. No.” I laugh.
“So everyone calls you Katherine.”
“Usually.”
“That seems so formal.” He studies me and his eyes seem to see everything. I don’t know whether to squirm uncomfortably or sit up straighter and let him really see me, battle scars and all, roaring into the darkness. “You look like a Katie to me.”
I like the way he says my name. His voice softens over the word, making those ever-present butterflies take flight within my belly. “You can call me that, if you want.” I can’t believe I just said that. Katie is part of before. It took forever to get everyone to break the habit. I didn’t want to be Katie Watts anymore. Everyone knew me by that name, the entire world.
I preferred Katherine. It sounded like someone else—so sophisticated, so grown-up, so unlike me. I didn’t feel like me anymore. I became someone new instead.
“I do want.” The way he says want, it’s almost . . . sexual, and sends a shiver down my spine. His expression is so serious, though there’s an unfamiliar light in his gaze, like he’s just won a magnificent prize and he’s feeling triumphant. “I like that a lot.” A pause. “Katie.”
My skin warms at the tone of his voice, the way he watches me. I could get used to this.
Who am I fooling? I am getting used to this. Too soon. He’ll hurt me if I don’t watch it. That’s what Brenna would say. She’d warn me to be cautious, to not let this man get too close.
But for once I’m tempted to let go of some of that control I keep myself so tightly cloaked in. Throw some of that caution I’m always holding on to to the wayside and just . . . see where it takes me. Where he might take me.
I want that more than anything else.
There’s nothing like a slap of reality to ruin my not-so-good intentions. I’d been on a high after my dinner with Katie. I got her to open up; I got her to be real. Our conversation might have bordered on silly—that she’s a Katy Perry fan is sort of adorable—but she was honest. She allowed me a glimpse of herself and that’s all I ever wanted.
Was I satisfied with only that? No. I’m a selfish bastard. Now that I’ve had a taste, been given that tantalizing glimpse, I want another one. I want to get closer. I want her open and raw and completely willing to give me everything that I want.
Which is her.
It’s the morning after our dinner and I’m eager to text her even though it’s barely eight o’clock. Ridiculous. I need to be patient, take my time. Rushing gets me nowhere, and I need to remember that. If I come on too strong I might freak her out, and that could be detrimental to our tentative friendship.
I’m at the local post office, where I keep a secret P.O. box, one for a certain William Monroe. He doesn’t exist any longer, I’d made sure of that, but right before I had my name legally changed, I purchased a P.O. box with my William Monroe ID. Just in case, I told myself. I figured it was the best way to allow my father to contact me without him discovering the new me. He has no idea where I really live, or that I’ve changed my name.
I made sure of that.
And it’s worked. It’s worked for over five years, ever since I had my name legally changed. The P.O. box is not that expensive and it’s well worth the money I’ve spent. Yeah, I get the occasional letter from prison. I also receive letters from reporters seeking me out. Once a publisher wrote me, wanting to hear my side of the story.
&nb
sp; I ignored them all. How they found my address, I’m not sure. The P.O. box address isn’t made public that I know of, but I don’t necessarily make it completely private, either. And no one knows Ethan Williams is William Monroe.
No one.
Approximately once a month I stop by the post office and clean out my mailbox. I go during off times when I think no one will be around so I can sneak in with relative anonymity. I haven’t received a letter from my father in over six months, maybe even closer to a year. Hell, I can’t remember the last time he wrote me. It’s been a relief, not hearing from him. His ranting, rambling letters are exhausting.
I pull out a pile of junk mail—newspaper mailers, postcard advertisements, the car insurance letters that are addressed to “resident.” But nestled among the miscellaneous junk mail, there is a letter waiting for me. I’d recognize that scrawling handwriting anywhere.
Dread consuming me, I toss the junk mail into a nearby garbage can and stare at the letter, the return address mocking me. I slam the metal door shut, turning the key with a hard yank before I pull it out. Shoving the key into the front pocket of my jeans, I clutch the letter so hard, it crinkles in my fingers as I stride out of the post office. My head down, my breath coming fast.
I don’t want to read the damn letter. But I have to.
I have to.
Waiting until I get inside my car, I tear open the envelope with shaking fingers, cursing under my breath at my nervousness. I know what made him write. I can sense it.
He saw the interview.
He saw Katie.
I pull the lined white paper out of the envelope and unfold it, surprised that it is only one page. His writing is small, every word tightly packed on each line, and I squint, trying to decipher it.
Dear Will,
It’s been a long time. I haven’t seen you since I don’t know when and it hurts that you don’t come around. I miss you. I wish you’d visit me and I try my best to understand why you don’t, but it’s hard. Can’t say that I enjoy the way you ignore me. A man gets lonely up here without any family around. No son to smile at and see how he’s doing.
It’s tough in here but I stand my ground. Not that you care. Why can’t you even write me? I don’t know what you do, where you live. Why all the secrets? I’ve found God, you know. He’s my savior, the Man who now guides me and has taught me right from wrong. I know what I’ve done is something I have to live with for the rest of my life but I’ve forgiven myself. Now I am in search of forgiveness from the people I’ve affected with my rash decisions. I hope that maybe someday you can forgive me for all the wrongs I’ve done to you throughout your life.
Did you see the interview with Katherine Watts? I watched it, every last awful minute of it. She lied. She makes me sick, with all of her lies. I was kind to her, as best as I could be considering at the time, I was sick. I kept her in a safe place. I was going to return her to her family. That she accused me of such filthy, horrible things . . . it hurts. What hurts worse? Because she’s pretty and so young and sincere, everyone believes her. That bitch Lisa Swanson ate up every word she said. It makes me sick.
With a few choice words I look like a disturbed predator, thanks to Katherine Watts. Yes, I had issues, but I wasn’t some evil monster. I wish that bitch Lisa Swanson would talk to me. I could change her mind about what kind of man I am. I’m not as bad as they make me out to be.
Katherine Watts is no pure, sweet angel either. She’s a silly little whore, just like every other woman out there. Wish everyone could see that.
Hope you see it. Hope you come see me. A man needs his family, son, and you and me, we’re just alike. We’re all we’ve got.
Don’t ever forget that.
Love,
Dad
I crumple the letter in my hands until it’s a tight little ball pressed against my palm, my fingers curled into a fist around it. Closing my eyes, I hit the back of my head against the car seat once. Again, harder this time, like I can knock sense into my brain, but it’s not working. Nothing works. His words replay on a loop in my head, taunting me, making the feeling worse.
Silly little whore. I look like a disturbed predator. I miss you. You and me, we’re just alike. We’re all we’ve got. Don’t ever forget that.
He makes me feel like shit. Worse, he makes me feel wrong. Reminds me that what I’m doing with Katie, it’s wrong. Seeking her out, following her, even rescuing her at the park, I should’ve never interfered with her life. I walked away from her before and I should have stayed away.
I took my need to find her too far. I became obsessed. I am obsessed—with Katie. With seeing her, with the way she makes me feel, how my heart twists when she smiles, how her eyes light up when she looks at me. It’s all fucked up, a mixture of memories and fantasies, the past and now. I’ve made a mess of things. Like usual.
Like always.
Like my father.
The ultimate in taking it too far was meeting her for dinner, like we were on a real date or something. Making conversation, revealing little bits and pieces to each other, like we were strangers and how we met was completely random.
It’s all a lie. She’s such a part of my life, my past, it’s like she’s permanently imprinted on my heart, seared into my fucking soul. Her words are on my skin and she has no idea. No fucking clue. I sat across from her and smiled and nodded and gently teased her about her love for anything Katy Perry and I’m the ultimate liar.
Reaching out, I grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn white. I grit my teeth, exhale through them, and stare out the window at nothing. My heart is thundering as though I just ran ten miles and no matter what I try to do, no matter how hard I try to forget, all I can think about is her.
Katie.
I’m sick of the lies I tell. My entire life is a lie. I need to do right by this girl, no matter how much it hurts me. I need to leave her alone. Never contact her again. It’s what’s best.
I’m obsessed, but I know better. I’m bad for her. I’ll ruin her. Because I’m just like him—and he will never let me forget it.
“I met a man.”
Dr. Harris glances up from the iPad where she takes her notes—I would never, ever want to see those notes about me, God no—and smiles faintly. “Did you now? Was that on your list of goals? Meeting a man?”
She sounds so neutral, like it’s no big deal that I met someone. When it was the absolute biggest deal ever for me.
Until it wasn’t—at least for him.
I nod, anger firing my blood as I launch into the entire story. How he saved me from the potential purse-snatchers, though I don’t mention where I went. Why I keep my visit to the amusement park a secret, I’m not sure, but I don’t really want a lecture about moving too fast. So I keep it to myself, burying yet another dirty little secret deep inside.
Stupid.
Dr. Harris remains quiet as I talk, eventually abandoning her tablet to concentrate solely on me. I pour out my heart, as hard as it is to do. I tell her how I felt instantly connected to Ethan as we talked over coffee, that he asked me to text him when I arrived home so he’d know I was safe and we exchanged cell numbers. That we even met for dinner.
How I haven’t heard from him since and it’s been over a week.
“You feel abandoned,” she states after I finish my story.
“Of course, I do.” I throw my hands up, giving her the universal duh expression. “For the first time in my adult life I show interest in a guy, actually go out on what I thought was a date with a man. I thought he liked me, too. He said he would call me. And he hasn’t.”
The pain from Ethan’s apparent rejection is almost unbearable and I hate that I’m so focused on it. I know it’s silly and I feel like a dumb teenage girl, but I thought . . . I truly thought he liked me.
Dr. Harris sets her iPad on a nearby table and folds her hands in her lap. “Who does Ethan remind you of?”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“How he?
??s treating you. Does his behavior remind you of anyone?” She’s prodding. Fishing. I’m supposed to figure this out on my own because she’s already put it all together.
We’re quiet as I mull over her question. The minute it clicks, I don’t want to admit it. “My father,” I confess reluctantly.
“That you realize this so quickly is good,” she says, sounding pleased. “You’re making progress.”
Here we go. “I suppose.”
“Beyond his looks—he is handsome, I assume?” When I nod she continues. “What else attracted you to him? How he jumped in and protected you without hesitation?”
Yes. Absolutely. But that trait is nothing like my father, considering he did nothing to protect me after everything that happened.
“He became your hero. And I think you’d like one. You want a hero.”
I had a hero. My father was my hero throughout my childhood. For a very brief, very dark period of my life, Will Monroe became my hero. I craved his attention, so much that I think I drove him away. And now . . . what? Ethan is my new hero?
Ridiculous.
“I don’t want a hero,” I retort.
“But you like it when someone steps in and rescues you,” she points out, and I don’t deny it. I can’t. “Were you scared when those boys tried to take your purse?”
Terribly. All the fear had turned into something else when Ethan stepped in. Excitement. Arousal.
Shame washes over me. I don’t dare admit that. Do I?
“Did Ethan scare you?” she asks when I still haven’t answered her first question.
“Yes. I didn’t know who he was. He just—he immediately took charge and shoved me out of the way. I almost fell and at first, I wondered if he was with them. But then he grabbed the boy’s shirt and threatened him. He looked so incredibly angry, it was frightening.”