Page 4 of Unholy Confessions (The Paper Rings Trilogy #1)

I 've been up all fucking night. My mind won't stop, and it won't rest. Even after fighting last night, which should have worn me out, I wasn't able to go to sleep.

But when I'm reaching over to grab my phone, there's a knock at the door. What the fuck is someone doing knocking at my door this early in the morning? Something must be wrong.

"Come in."

I expect someone to come rushing in with some sort of devastating news. Instead, my dad walks in quietly, grief and sadness written all over his face.

"What's wrong? Is it Grandma, Grandpa? Did something happen to Montgomery?" I sit up, forgetting to hide my knuckles, throwing the cover off.

He shakes his head, rolling his lips together.

Looking behind him, he takes a seat in the chair I have in my corner.

I don't think I've ever seen him this way.

His face looks destroyed. Stretching his long legs in front of him, he clasps his hands together, and lifts his eyes at me.

There are tears in the depths, and my heart pounds against my chest. His voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks. "Let me see those knuckles."

I immediately go to hide them under the covers, but the covers are gone, and my shame is now out in the open. "Dad..."

"You don't have to say anything," he says, hurriedly. "I want you to listen first, and then we can have a serious conversation."

Nodding, I pull my legs up, wrapping my arms around my knees.

The silence stretches between us, and I can hear my heart beating so loud I'm sure he can hear it too. Dad's never looked at me like this before, like he's seeing something that breaks his heart. The tears in his eyes make my stomach twist into knots.

"Son," he starts, his voice rough. "I got a call from Jared this morning. Early. Around six."

My blood runs cold. Jared. Montgomery's dad. Which means... fuck. Montgomery told him. She told him about the fighting.

"He was worried about you. Really worried." Dad leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "He told me some things that... Jesus, RJ. How long have you been struggling like this?"

I want to lie. I want to tell him that everything's fine, that Jared's overreacting, that Montgomery doesn't know what she's talking about. But looking at Dad's face, seeing the genuine concern and pain there, I can't do it. The words stick in my throat.

"I don't know," I whisper finally. "A while."

"The fighting. How long has that been going on?"

"A few months." I rest my chin on my knees. "Maybe longer."

Dad nods slowly, like he's processing this information. "And not sleeping? Jared said Montgomery mentioned that you've been having trouble sleeping."

"I can't turn my brain off." The admission comes out before I can stop it.

My voice is hoarse, and it doesn't even sound like me.

"It's like there's this constant noise up there, and nothing I do makes it quiet down.

Even when I'm exhausted, I just lie here and think about everything I'm doing wrong, everyone I'm not good enough for. "

"RJ..." Dad's voice cracks a little.

"The fighting helps," I continue, the words tumbling out now. "When I'm getting hit, or when I'm hitting someone else, it's the only time my mind goes quiet. It's the only time I feel like I can breathe."

Dad runs a hand through his hair, and I can see him struggling with something. "What else? What other symptoms have you been having?"

Symptoms. Like I'm sick or something. But maybe I am sick. Maybe there's something wrong with me that goes deeper than just being a disappointment. Deeper than feeling like I don't belong in this fucking family.

"I can't concentrate on anything. School's a joke – I sit in class and the teacher might as well be speaking a foreign language.

I start reading a page in a book and by the time I get to the bottom, I have no idea what I just read.

" I pause, swallowing hard, fear starting to eat away at my resistance.

"And I get so angry about stupid shit. Like, ridiculously angry.

Someone bumps into me and I want to rip their head off. "

"How's your appetite been?"

"What appetite?" I laugh bitterly. "Food tastes like cardboard most of the time. Montgomery had to basically force me to eat last night."

Dad is quiet for a long moment, and I can see him putting pieces together in his head. When he looks up at me again, his expression has shifted from grief to something else. Determination, maybe.

"Son, I think you might be dealing with depression. Maybe anxiety too. What you're describing – the racing thoughts, the insomnia, the inability to concentrate, the anger, the loss of appetite – these are all symptoms."

"I'm not depressed," I say automatically. "Depressed people are sad all the time. I'm not sad, I'm just... angry."

"Depression doesn't always look like sadness, RJ. Sometimes it looks like anger. Sometimes it looks like numbness. Sometimes it looks like needing to fight just to feel something."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Is that what this is? Is that why I feel like I'm drowning most of the time?

"But why?" I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds. "I have everything. Good family, money, opportunities. What the hell do I have to be depressed about?"

"Depression doesn't work that way, son. It's not about what you have or don't have. It's a chemical imbalance in your brain. It's an illness, not a character flaw."

"So I'm broken." It's not a question.

"No." Dad's voice is firm. "You're sick. And sick people get treatment, and they get better."

I rest my forehead on my knees, trying to process everything he's saying. "Are you disappointed in me?"

"What?" The shock in his voice makes me look up.

"Are you disappointed? That your son is some kind of mental case who gets in underground fights and can't even handle going to high school?"

Dad's face crumples, and for a second I think he might actually start crying. "RJ, no. God, no. I'm disappointed in myself."

"What?"

"I've been so caught up in work, in the tour, in everything else that I completely missed that my son was struggling. I failed you. I should have seen the signs, should have been paying better attention." He shakes his head. "You're not a disappointment, son. I am."

"Dad, that's not?—"

"It is." He leans forward again. "When's the last time we spent time together? Just you and me? When's the last time I asked you how you were doing and actually listened to the answer?"

I think about it, and the realization is like a knife to the chest. "I don't remember."

"Exactly. I've been so focused on EJ and his band, so proud of what he's accomplishing, that I forgot I have another son who might need me too."

"But EJ's doing something with his life. He's following in your footsteps, he's talented, he's?—"

"He's not you." Dad's voice is quiet but intense. "RJ, do you have any idea how proud I am of you?"

"For what? Getting in fights? Failing chemistry? Being the family fuck-up?"

"For being who you are. You're a lot like your mother, and I love her more than anything in this world.

You put yourself at risk to keep others from having to deal with your rage.

Fighting the way you are? At least you're fighting people who want to fight with you.

" Dad's eyes are definitely watery now. "Do you know what Montgomery told her dad about you this morning? "

I shake my head, not sure I want to hear this.

"She told him that you're the best person she knows.

That you're always there for her, that you make her feel safe, that you put everyone else's needs before your own.

She's worried sick about you, son. Not because she thinks you're broken or disappointing, but because she loves you and she can see that you're in pain. "

The mention of Montgomery makes my chest tighten. "She ratted on me."

"She saved you," Dad corrects. "Do you think it was easy for her to tell her dad about the fighting? Do you think she wanted to risk your friendship? She did it because she was scared she was going to lose you."

I think about last night, about the kiss, about the way she looked at me like I was something precious. And then I think about how she must have felt, carrying the weight of my problems, watching me destroy myself and not knowing how to help.

"I'm such an asshole," I whisper.

"You're a teenager with a possibly untreated mental illness," Dad says. "There's a difference."

We sit in silence for a moment, and I try to wrap my head around everything he's told me. Depression. Anxiety. Treatment. It all sounds so clinical, so serious.

"What happens now?" I ask finally.

"Now we get you help. We'll take you to your doctor. We'll figure out what you need to start feeling better."

"What if it doesn't work? What if I'm just... like this?"

"Then we'll try something else. And if that doesn't work, we'll try something else after that. We don't give up, RJ. Not on you. Not ever."

The emotion in his voice breaks something open in my chest, and suddenly I can't hold it back anymore. The tears I've been swallowing for months start pouring out, and once they start, I can't stop them.

"I don't know what's happening to me," I sob, the words coming out in a rush.

"I just want to be the son you love, the brother EJ wants to be around, the guy Montgomery can count on.

I want to be a good student and not be fighting all the time.

I want to feel normal again, but I don't even remember what normal feels like anymore. "

Dad is off the chair and on the bed before I can blink, pulling me into his arms like he used to when I was little and had nightmares. I bury my face in his shoulder and let myself fall apart completely.

"You are the son I love," he says fiercely, his own voice thick with tears. "You've always been the son I love. None of this changes that. Nothing could change that."

"I'm sorry," I choke out. "I'm sorry I'm such a mess. I'm sorry I've been lying to you. I'm sorry I let you down."

"You didn't let me down, son. I let you down. But we're going to fix this, okay? We're going to get you the help you need, and you're going to feel like yourself again."

I don't know how long we sit there, but eventually my tears slow down and I can breathe again. Dad doesn't let go, just holds me like I'm something valuable that might break.

"RJ?" A soft voice from the doorway makes us both look up. Mom is standing there in her pajamas, her face pale and worried. She must have just gotten back from New York.

"Mom," I say, and my voice cracks on the word.

She crosses the room quickly and sits on the other side of me, completing the circle. "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry we didn't see how much you were hurting."

"I filled her in on the way home from the airport," Dad explains quietly.

Mom reaches out and gently takes my bruised hands in hers, examining my knuckles with the careful attention she used to give my scraped knees when I was little.

"We're going to get you help," she says softly. "Whatever you need. Therapy, medication, time off school if necessary. We're going to figure this out together."

"What if I can't get better?" I ask. "What if this is just who I am now?" I need the same assurance from her that I got from dad.

"Then we'll love you anyway," Mom says simply. "But RJ, honey, you're going to get better. You're going to be everything you want to be and more. This doesn't define you. It's something you're going through, not something you are."

For the first time in months, I feel something that might be hope stirring in my chest. Maybe they're right. Maybe this isn't permanent. Maybe I can get back to being the person I used to be – or maybe I can become someone even better.

"I love you guys," I whisper.

"We love you too, son," Dad says. "More than you'll ever know."