Page 83 of Silas

“What did he say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Give it to me, Silas. Let me have it.”

My gut lurches. My chest is frozen, my lungs seared shut, throat clogged. “Not putting that on you.” It’s a miracle I manage to get that out.

“I can handle it, Silas. I want it. Give it to me. Please.” Her words are firm, strong, and forceful, even as her embrace is pure softness, utterly tender and loving.

“Fuck.”

Her hands are warm and soft and gentle, soothing over my hair and neck and shoulders and lats. “Let me have it, Silas. Please?”

“Why?”

“I want to. Please, let me do this for you.”

“Do what?”

“Be there for you.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, honey, you’re not.”Honey. The endearment rifles through me, as hot and sharp as a bullet. “And that’s okay. You don’t have to be. Just tell me. Tell me what he said to you.”

I feel it pouring out. “Men don’t cry.”

I try to stop it, but the floodgates have been opened.

My voice turns into a twisted dark snarl, nothing like the booming, stentorian way he spoke, but a representation of how I hear it, still, in my soul, twenty-five years later. “‘Pathetic little bitch. Quit crying, you fucking pussy. You want something to cry about? Cry about this. You’re fucking pathetic, Silas. Pathetic little bitch of a boy. Crying about everything. Fucking pussy. You’re a weak little fucking pussy, Silas. You’re weak. You’re weak. You’re weak.’”

Repeating the words that have lived rent-free in every fiber of my being my entire life…it breaks something in me.

My chest heaves. A ragged sound rips out of me.

“That’s it, Silas. Let it out.” She clings to me tightly, arms and legs coiled around me like vises. Her breath is soft and sweet in my hair, on my cheek. “Give it all to me, Silas. I can carry it for you.”

I shake my head. But it’s too late for denials—I’m already letting it out, despite my best efforts. My whole body is wracked, shaking and heaving silently. My eyes burn. My chest burns. Everything burns.

She doesn’t shush me. She doesn’t tell me it’s going to be okay. She just holds me as I sob like a little boy—the little boy I was never allowed to be.

How long? Five minutes? An hour? I don’t know. My throat is raw and the skin under my eyes feels red and swollen, stinging.

Eventually, the wracking, heaving sobs subside, and I’m left feeling limp and spent.

Naomi loosens her embrace, then. Rolls with me once more so I’m on my back and she’s on top of me. Her soft center presses against my belly, her tits resting on my breastbone. She touches her forehead to mine. Kisses beneath my eyes where they feel so raw and swollen.

“Look at me, Silas.” She kisses my eyelids. “Open up. Let me see those beautiful green eyes. Please?”

Gingerly, tentatively, I crack my eyes open.

Her smile is bright and tender and lovely and gentle. There’s no reproach. No bitterness. No disgust. “Hi,” she whispers, her voice laced with such understanding and affection that it nearly breaks me apart all over again. “There you are.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

I shake my head. “I’m supposed to be strong. For you.”