Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2) (34 page)

I eventually found my way out though. Something I never thought I would be able to do. It turns out that the strength I envied in you, I already possessed. I’m proud to be able to say that.

It’s funny, for so long, I knew our paths were not to be the same. I imagined yours breaking from mine when you found your own happiness one day. It would be full of light and happiness, and Dalton would be by your side. Mine, however, would be the exact opposite, lined in darkness and flooded with my own demons.

I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

Now, I’m on the path I should have been on all along. I found my way to a path of
my
choosing, not one forced upon me. A path of healing, full of warmth and courage. And I’m happy here.

Did our paths diverge? Yes. As they were supposed to do. We can’t grow into the people we’re supposed to be if we stay in the same place, traveling the same road, going nowhere new or unexplored. We have to brave the unknown and allow our feet to carry us where we’re destined to be.

That’s exactly what growth is, and that’s what I’m doing.

I realize now that we don’t have to be traveling through life side by side to remain friends. Our bond, our friendship, will secure us for the rest of our lives, no matter where we go.

I just hope I didn’t sever that bond. That I didn’t push you so far away that it snapped apart. That I didn’t slice right through it by not telling you about my past.

But like I said, the choice is yours, now that you know everything.

That’s it.

That’s all of me, my story, my past.

I really hope you can forgive me for not sharing it with you sooner.

Love you, times two.

Cass

My nerves are at an all-time high when I hear the front door shut, announcing Spencer’s arrival. I left her letter on her dresser, then hauled ass to my room, where I’ve been hiding since waiting for her to get home. Ten minutes pass with no sound or movement stemming from the other side of the apartment, but just as I toss Roger above my head for the forty-seventh time, I hear her door softly click shut.

Roger drifts through the air as I listen to footsteps cross the living room, and he lands on my carpet just as there’s a gentle knock on my door. I swallow deeply, rising from the floor, and wipe my sweaty palms along my thighs.

My steps are hesitant and slow, and my hands tremble slightly as I reach for the knob. I breathe in a large gulp of air, then release it before tugging the door open.

I barely have time to register Spencer’s glistening eyes and reddened nose before she hauls into me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders to embrace me tightly. Not at all prepared, I clumsily stumble backward with her excessive momentum, and together, we fall to the carpet.

As she rolls off me, her entire body shakes from either laughing or crying, I can’t tell. Her long blonde hair is covering her face when she lands on her back, and I reach toward her to hook a section with my index finger and slide it toward me to better assess her reaction. A huge smile takes up the lower part of her face but fat droplets continue to stream across her temples.

Great. She’s laugh-crying.

I turn on my side and she does the same, both of us landing on our shoulders with smiles on our faces and moisture lining our eyes.

“Well, that was embarrassing,” Spencer wipes a tear as it crosses the bridge of her freckled nose before adding, “and not at all what I had planned.”

I grin and sniffle. “For us, it’s about standard.”

She lifts her arm, running her hand along my hair. The smile disappears and her face crumbles right in front of my eyes. My chest splits in two as my heart breaks. I hate seeing her cry.

“Spence—”

She cuts me off, blubbering, “I wish you would have told me, Cass. I could have done something. Helped you in some way.”

Emotion clogs my throat making speech impossible, and I clear it before speaking. “This is why I didn’t tell you, Spence. At the time, I didn’t believe I could tell you. I didn’t understand that I needed help. As I got older and understood more, I certainly didn’t want to tell you and then only see pity in your eyes when you looked at me. I didn’t want to become a project for you, someone for you to fix. I just wanted to be your friend, like I was before it happened. That’s the only thing I had to hang on to, and I was so scared I would lose it. Lose you. I couldn’t have handled that if it happened.”

She reaches forward and takes my hand into hers, interlacing our fingers and locking our stares. “Love you.” Nothing more needs to be said.

The tears break free from my eyes as I respond, “Love you, times two.”

Both of our mouths lift into simultaneous smiles with the words, then Spencer laughs under her breath. “I’m officially renouncing my birthday. It’s bad luck.”

My bottom lip pokes out as I pout, “But you lost your virginity to Dalton on your birthday.”

“He disappeared the same night. It cancels out,” Spencer counters.

“But you had a birthday redo, so it doesn’t. It’s back on the table,” I reason.

She shakes her head. “That wasn’t on my birthday, it was two weeks prior. Doesn’t count. Plus, this time around, I was kidnapped, Dalton was shot, and your uncle reappeared after years. All on my birthday.”

I open my mouth to challenge that Alan was dead, therefore it doesn’t count, but she states firmly, “It counts.”

I consider her argument, then nod. “Yes, I think that would be for the best. No more birthdays for Spencer.”

As we fall into our typical banter, I wrack my brain.

Why had I been worried about her reaction?

This is Spencer, my beautiful, brave, funny friend. Always forgiving. Always finding and distributing her light.

I never should’ve doubted her.

My mouth twists to the side as I remember, “Hey . . . I didn’t get you anything this year.”

Spencer’s face forms into contented expression, and she lifts her hand once again to stroke my hair. “You heal, Cass. That’s the
only
present I want from you.”

My hand curls over hers against my head, and I squeeze tight. As we hold each other’s eyes, I don’t see pity. If anything, I see admiration and pride.

My chest tightens as the familiar tug forms between us, reinforcing the bond whose integrity should have never been put into question.

We might be on different paths, but there’s nothing that can ever keep us apart.

That’s just how our friendship works.

Mom and Dad,

I’m writing you this letter to inform you of something you already know, but have refused to admit to yourselves. So, I will be the adult in this situation and bring it out into the open for us to discuss.

Uncle Alan sexually abused me when he lived at this house.

What Uncle Alan did was inexcusable, but the ease of your dismissal, your refusal to acknowledge the psychological damage incurred because of his actions, well . . . those things are far worse. They’re deplorable. Unforgivable.

When it happened,
every time
it happened, Uncle Alan told me I couldn’t tell you, so I didn’t. I kept his secret. I was a good girl. But I kept thinking, kept hoping, that one of you would ask what was wrong with me, because in my simplistic mind, if you asked and I told you because I was simply responding, then I wouldn’t be breaking my word to Uncle Alan. I would still be a good girl.

But the fucked-up thing is, you never asked.

Not once.

Not when I started jumping anytime anyone entered my room.

Not when I started flinching every time someone would touch me.

Not when your usually rambunctious, inquisitive, outspoken little girl went practically mute, too frightened to speak.

Not even when I couldn’t make eye contact with my own father, his face too similar to the man who haunted my dreams. Who destroyed my happiness.

And definitely not when I would wake in the middle of the night after experiencing those terrifying dreams, forced to wash my own urine-soaked sheets before washing the stench from my body.

I know you heard me those nights.

Yet, you never asked.

So I never told.

I lived with the repercussions of his actions, while you both lived in denial. You took the easy road, while your daughter paid the price.

Your eight-year-old daughter.

Where the fuck were you?

Why didn’t you protect me?

Why didn’t you get me help?

How could you just sit there, day in and day out, with all these visible changes happening and never fucking ask? You just sat by, playing ignorant while waiting for the eight-year-old of the house to come to you, to admit the most horrifying thing ever that could happen to a child, just so you wouldn’t have to say the words.

And quite possibly worst of all you made me go to his funeral. You knew what he had done to me, but you forced me to attend the bastard’s funeral, regardless of the pain you knew I’d feel in seeing him again.

Un-fucking-forgivable.

I’m washing my hands of both of you, until you can choose me over your own goddamn pride.

I refuse to waste my energy being angry with the two of you anymore.

When or if you choose to acknowledge what happened, when you’re open to discussion and willing to take the steps necessary for this family to heal, I will be there to hear what you have to say.

But until that day comes, I’m done.

I cannot, and will not, ruin my chance to move forward and mend the damage done.

I suffered in silence, but I will heal vocally.

And this letter is my vocalization to you, as my parents, as those who were supposed to protect me. You failed miserably.

What Alan did didn’t destroy this family, you did.

I will no longer allow you to destroy me along with it.

I will heal.

And I will do it with, or without you.

Because this letter is just another step, taken by me, for me, as I bring myself closer to doing that.

There are only so many steps I can take until I’m forced to leave you behind.

The ball is in your court now; the decision is yours to make.

Your daughter or your pride.

Cassie

Unlike with Spencer, I did
not
give my parents room to digest their letter without my presence. I wanted to see their reactions, watch their faces, as they read my words. I know what I wrote was harsh, severe, unsympathetic. But there was just too much suppressed anger and disappointment to say anything other than what I did. I needed to express exactly how I felt, without regret or worry regarding their reaction.

I’ve known for years that they suspected something happened when Alan entered my life. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out, and they’re not oblivious people. For a long time, we all existed within the comfort of denial. I made excuses for their lack of interest, of worry, and they . . . well, they did nothing.

It is what it is.

The damage is done.

I watch my father’s face fall, his entire expression weighted with sorrow as he sobs silently to himself before heading out of the room, leaving me alone with my mother.

He only made it to the second paragraph. I figured as much.

The sad thing is, I don’t even know the real reason he’s crying.

Is it because the truth was finally spelled out for him?

Or because of the atrocities committed by his own brother?

Or is it simply because he misses the piece of shit?

Who knows?

Who cares?

His inability to comfort me during this time pretty much tells me all I need to know about our relationship, or lack thereof.
He used to mean the world to me.

My mother, as usual, remains indifferent as she reads on, her slacks impeccable, creased along the length of her crossed legs and hitting her ankle as her agitated foot swings back and forth. Her brown hair is in a tight bun, the slivers of grey strands woven expertly with the rest. I watch, standing in the middle of the living room until she finishes the letter, then her eyes rise to meet mine. They narrow on my face, but I give nothing away.