Page 42 of Play Me

“Come on. You know me. I overthink everything.” I laugh, taking a piece of chocolate from him. “Okay, I’d get a star for my grandmother. It was our thing. And I’d choose something for my mother, but I have no idea what.”

“Do you know anything about her?”

“Honestly? No.” I break the candy into two pieces and eat one. “My father never talked about her. He just pretended she never existed. I only have one picture of her that I hid in a Bible growing up because it was the one place my dad wouldn’t look.”

Gray takes a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “You told me once that your father was a sonofabitch.”

“I must’ve felt nice that day.”

The only sound filling the pregnant pause between us is the whirling of the ceiling fan.

I lie still, focusing on my heart rate. It rocks against my ribs as if it’s gearing up to fight or flee—because that’s what thoughts of John Lawsen do to me. They put me in survival mode.

Gianna knows some of the things I experienced with my father, although not all. It wasn’t something we liked to spend our time chatting about in high school. And I’ve shared some things with Audrey, but not a lot—probably not even enough to paint an accurate picture of my life on Hemlock Street.

The only person in the world that I have told more to than anyone else is Trace.

Acid fills my stomach as memories of Trace weaponizing my experiences against me. The name-calling. The belittling. He used my wounds as a target and shot arrows into them until they wept.

“I’m not prodding you for information,” Gray says, wrapping his arm around me and pulling me close to his side. “But I want you to know that I meant it when I said that you’re safe with me. I’ve gone through my share of shit, and when you have no one to talk to about it, it just festers.”

Thinking about my father usually feels like a scab being picked off an old wound. I brace myself against Gray’s body, waiting for the discomfort and pain to streak through me. Yet … it doesn’t. I monitor my breath, feeling the air enter and exit my lungs, and the panic doesn’t come.

“He was an alcoholic,” I say softly, the words flowing out of my mouth. “My grandmother said it started when Mom died. When I was born. That was a fact that he never let me forget.”

Gray kisses the side of my head, nuzzling his face in my hair.

“He always said that I was selfish from the start,” I say. “That I killed my mother and would do anything to get what I want. He’d punish me for everything and nothing—withholding food, refusing to let me use hot water for showers, and making me wear dirty clothes to school.”

Gray’s body stiffens, and his grip on me tightens. He doesn’t speak, but I can feel his jaw tense against my skull. And his reaction, as if he cares about the pain that little Astrid went through, has tears pooling in the corners of my eyes.

“I wasn’t allowed to play sports,” I say, blinking back the tears.

Sand fills my chest just like it did when I lived with him.

“I wanted to be in the band in junior high and found a guitar at a yard sale. The woman ended up giving it to me for free.” I sniffle against the burn across the bridge of my nose.

“Dad smashed it against the wood stove the first night I had it.”

“ God ,” Gray bites out, squeezing me.

“He stole my journals and teased me relentlessly about what was inside them. His friends would come over and make comments about my body and say wholly inappropriate things to a preteen girl. Dad didn’t care.

If I got upset, I was being an emotional bitch, and he’d make me clean the house or he’d smack me with an open hand because if his hand was open, it wasn’t abuse. ”

I take a breath, feeling like I’m being suffocated. I can sense the sting in my cheek, the bruise on my arm, and the pain searing my scalp from being dragged around the house by my ponytail.

“He refused to buy me tampons when I got my period and called me a little whore for having the audacity to menstruate,” I say hurriedly.

“So I got a job at fourteen. But he just bullied me into giving him my paychecks so he could buy lottery tickets and vodka because he had to pay for the utilities and whatnot.”

A tear rolls down my cheek.

“Fuck, Astrid.” He exhales slowly. “I’m so sorry.”

I clutch his arm as something inside me cracks open. It’s a flood of emotion, a wave of memories that I haven’t thought about in a long time. But unlike past moments when I’ve faced these things myself, they don’t take me out with them. I don’t get washed away with the tide.

That’s progress. That’s empowering. It’s freeing.

“Where is your dad now?” Gray asks, his tone frigid.

“He’s dead.”

His chest rises and then falls, as if this information is a relief to him, too. “Have you ever shared this with anyone?” Gray asks softly. “Or have you kept this to yourself for all of these years?”

Dad’s voice, followed by Trace’s, echoes through my brain, making it hard to swallow. It’s devastating to remember such moments, but it’s also heartbreaking that I chose to deal with this sort of man a second time. I survived them both, but I’ll never, ever deal with it again.

“You want me to spend my money on tampons? Fuck no. That’s not my fuckin’ problem.”

“You’re a selfish little bitch. It’s no wonder your father had to knock you around.”

“How about this? Don’t turn a light on, use any hot water, or eat any of my fuckin’ food. Then maybe you’ll realize how much I do for you around here!”

“I’m either going through your phone or you’re getting the fuck out. I can’t help you grew up like a piece of trash and don’t know how to act. I have to protect myself here, Astrid.”

My inhale shakes. I slip my foot over Gray’s legs, craving his proximity. “I told Trace. He just used it to pick up pointers on how to hurt me.”

“Where’s he now?” Gray’s body tenses again. “Just curious.”

His tone sends a ripple of energy through me, like there’s a buffer between me and my trauma.

It offers me the space to breathe, to recalibrate from the memories, in a way I’ve never experienced before.

It’s as if I can set down my sword and rest. “I don’t know.

But now you know why I have trust issues. ”

“And that’s why you jumped to the conclusion that I was a bully at the gas station.”

“No, you were a bully at the gas station.” I extricate myself from his grip and sit up, facing him. “You could’ve picked any other pump. There was no reason for you to growl and beep your horn at me.”

He smiles, amused. “I couldn’t pull up to another pump without backing up and making a whole production out of it. Some of us don’t drive little cars that can spin on a dime.”

“Because some of us are confident in our manhood.”

Before I know what’s happening, I’m being tossed on my back. Gray hovers over me with a decadent smirk. I giggle, squirming unsuccessfully to get away—not that I really want to get out from under him. I really want to see what that smirk is all about.

“Are you sore?” he asks, kissing me on the tip of the nose.

“Yes.”

“ Oh .” He frowns. “Well, then …”

He starts to roll off me, but I wrap my legs around his waist. Placing my hands on his face, I peer into his eyes, and what I see startles me.

Kindness. Concern. Safety.

And, most of all, attraction.

That’s a plethora of conditions that, together, are a little too much to take at once. But I do know what I can take instead …

“Hey, Truck Boy,” I say, smiling at him. “Will you shut up for once and fuck me?”

He growls before capturing my lips with his own and making me forget about everything except him.