Why a lantern? I don’t know.

“On your eleventh birthday, I got drunk.” Her words came out calm and slow. “Do you remember? I forgot about the dinner we were supposed to have at the Brandts’, because I was out with my friends.”

There weren’t many birthdays that sat well with me, so no, I didn’t remember.

“I forgot it was your birthday,” she continued as tears filled her eyes. “I didn’t even have a cake for you.”

Big f**king surprise there.

But I didn’t speak. Just listened, more to see where she was going with this.

“Anyway, I came home at about ten, and you were sitting on the couch waiting for me. You had stayed in all night. You wouldn’t go to the dinner without me.”

Me. In the dark. Alone. Angry. Hungry.

“Mom, stop. I don’t want to—”

“I have to,” she interrupted, crying. “Please. You were sad at first, I remember, but then you copped an attitude. Told me I was embarrassing and that other kids had better moms and dads. I yelled at you and sent you to your room.”

Madman whining at my door. Rain against the windows.

“I don’t remember.”

“I wish that was true, Jared. But unfortunately, that tattoo proves that you remember.” She’d stopped crying, but the tears were still on her cheeks. “About ten minutes later, I went to your room. I didn’t want to face you, but I knew you were right, and I had to apologize. I opened your door, and you were leaning out your open window, laughing.”

She paused, lost in thought as she stared at nothing. “Tate,” she finally said, “was at her open French doors. Her room was dark, except for a Japanese lantern lamp that you and her father had made for her as an early birthday present.” My mom let out a small smile. “She had the Beastie Boys’ Fight For Your Right song blasting, and she was dancing all crazy…crazy just for you. She glowed, like a little star bouncing around her room in her nightgown.” Mom raised her eyes and looked at me. “She was trying to cheer you up.”

As soon as I’d seen Tate at her doors that night, I didn’t feel shitty anymore. Mom was forgotten. My birthday was forgotten. Tate became more of a home to me than my own blood.

And I never wanted to be where she wasn’t.

“Jared, I’m a bad mother.” She swallowed hard, obviously trying to hold back more tears.

I looked off to the side, unable to meet her eyes. “I made it through, Mom.”

“You did… somewhat. I’m proud of you. You’re strong, and you’re not a follower. I know I’ll send you into the world a survivor.” Her light voice turned firm and serious. “I wouldn’t want any other son. But, Jared, you’re not happy.”

The air around me got tight, pushing me from all sides, and I didn’t know where to turn to get out. “Who’s happy? Are you?” I barked.

“Jared, I was seventeen when I got pregnant with you.” She folded her arms and hugged herself, more like hiding from something than warming herself. “I’m only thirty-six now. People I graduated with—some of them—are just starting their families. I was so young. I had no support. I didn’t get a chance to live before I had my world turned upside down—,”

“Yeah, I get it, alright,” I cut her off. “I’ll be out of your hair by June.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She moved closer, her voice raspy and holding out her hand as if to stop my thoughts. “You were the gift, Jared. The light. Your father was the hell. I thought I loved him. He was strong, confident, and cocky. I idolized him…” She trailed off, and I swear I could hear her heart breaking as her eyes fell to the ground.

I didn’t want to hear about that ass**le, but I knew she needed to talk. And for some reason I wanted to let her.

“I idolized him for about a month,” she continued. “Long enough to get pregnant and get stuck with him.” And then she looked at me again. “But I was young and immature. I thought I knew everything. Drinking was my escape, and I abandoned you. You never deserved that. When I saw Tate trying to make you happy that night, I let her. The next morning you weren’t in your room. When I looked out your window, I could see you both passed out in her bed, just sleeping. So I let it be. For years, I knew you were sneaking over there to sleep, and I let it go, because she made you happy when I failed.”

The purest, truest, most perfect thing in my world, and I’d dumped pile upon pile of shit on top of her for years.

A knot of realization worked its way into my head, and I felt like punching my fist through a f**king wall.

“Jesus Christ.” I combed my hands through my hair, my eyes squeezing shut as I whispered to myself. “I’ve been so horrible to her.”

My mother, like Mr. Brandt, probably knew nothing of what I’d put Tate through, but she did know that we weren’t friends anymore.

“Honey,” she spoke up, “you’ve been horrible to everyone. Some of us deserved it, some of us not. But Tate loves you. She’s your best friend. She’ll forgive you.”

Will she?

“I love her.” It was the most honest thing I’d confided in my mother in a long time.

My father could kiss his own ass, and my mother and I would survive, for better or worse. But Tate?

I needed her.

“I know you love her. And I love you,” she said as she reached out and touched my cheek. “You’re not letting your father or me take anything else from you, do you understand?”

Tears burned my eyes, and I couldn’t hold them back.

“How do I know I’m not going to be like him?” I whispered.

My mother was quiet as she studied me, and then her eyes narrowed.

“Tell her the truth,” she instructed. “Trust her with everything, especially your heart. Do that, and you’re already not like your father.”

Chapter 30

Yesterday lasts forever.

Tomorrow comes never.

I looked down at the blank piece of printer paper, the words of my tattoo staring back at me.

Now I knew what they meant.

I was a huge, f**king idiot. That was for sure.

Not only had I let myself get tied up by the bullshit my father doled out, but I’d willingly let my hate control me, wrongfully thinking that it made me stronger.

Leaning down, I placed the paper on my thigh and scribbled another line.

Until you.

Feeling the weight lift off of my shoulders, I nailed it to the tree between Tate’s and my houses and grabbed the rest of the stuff off of the ground.

Backing up, I looked at the huge Maple, not only bright with the red and gold leaves that had not yet fallen, but with the hundreds of white lights and several lanterns I’d hung.

It was her birthday today, and all I could think about was how she’d brightened my day when I was eleven. I wanted to return the favor and show her that I remembered.

Assuming she was out with K.C., I hung out in her bedroom, leaning on the rails outside of her open French doors and just stared at the folder I’d placed on her bed.

The folder with all of the proof of what my father had done to me.

She already seen it, of course, when she snooped in my room.

But she hadn’t heard it from me yet.

A door closed downstairs, and my back straightened.

I breathed deliberately—slow and calm—but my body heated up and my heart raced.

Jesus.

I was f**king nervous.

Will what I tell her be good enough? Will she understand?

Tate walked slowly into her room, and I immediately gripped the rails behind me to stop myself from rushing her.

Her eyebrows were slightly drawn together as she looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

Her hair hung loose, and she wore dark, faded jeans and a short-sleeved, black blouse. Too many clothes, but I liked that about Tate. She never revealed too much, and she reminded me of a present that I couldn’t wait to unwrap. She looked sexy as hell, and I had a hard time taking my mind off of the bed in the room.

I gestured to the folder on the bed. “Is that what you were looking for in my room last night?”

She kept her head level but her eyes shot down, and a shade of pink covered her cheeks.

Come on, Tate. Don’t be a wuss.

It actually pleased me that she’d gone snooping. She cared.

“Go ahead.” I nodded towards the folder. “Take a look.”

She probably hadn’t gotten much time to see them the other night.

Her gaze shifted up to mine for a second, and she looked like she was considering if she should indulge her curiosity.

But she took the offer.

Slowly, she opened the folder and splayed out the photos. Her hands shook as she picked one up and stared at it, almost not breathing.

“Jared,” she groaned, lifting her hand to her mouth. “What is this? What happened to you?”

I dropped my eyes to the floor and ran a hand through my hair.

This was harder than I’d thought it would be.

Trust her with everything, especially your heart.

“My father.” I let out a long, quiet breath. “He did that to me. And to my brother.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, and her mouth opened a little.

Tate didn’t know I had a brother. Unless her father had told her, and he never said anything that wasn’t necessary.

“The summer before freshman year, I was hyped up to spend my whole summer hanging out with you, but as you remember, my dad called out of the blue and wanted to see me. So I went. I hadn’t seen him in more than ten years, and I wanted to know him.”

She sat down on the bed, listening.

“When I got there,” I continued, “I found out that my dad had another son. A kid from another relationship. His name is Jaxon, and he’s only about a year younger than me.”

Jax flashed in my mind, twelve years old and scrawny. He’d had dirt on his face, and his dark hair was short then.

“Go on,” she whispered, and I let out the breath I’d been holding.

And I told her the whole damn story.

About how my father used us to make money for him—selling drugs, breaking into houses, delivering shit.

Of how he hurt Jax and then started hurting me when I refused to do his dirty work.

Of how we were victimized by the lowlifes hanging round the house, and I let her see the scars on my back that my father had given me with a belt buckle.

I also told her of how my father hated us and my mother abandoned us, and then of how I abandoned Jax and left him with my father when he refused to leave with me.

Tate’s eyes got red and pooled with tears that she tried to hold back.

I released all of the sickness in my head and the crud that had blackened my heart, and I wanted to wipe away the tears that she cried for me.

She’d always cared. She’d always loved me.

I’d treated her worse than a dog for three years, and she still cried for me.

I felt the ache in my throat as I looked at her, her face twisted up in sadness, and I knew she had every right not to forgive me.

But I knew she would.

Maybe that’s the thing I’d been missing about love.

You don’t withhold it or partition it out when it’s deserved.

You can’t control it like that.

After I told her the ugly story, I sat there next to her, waiting for her to say something.

I didn’t know what she was thinking, but she let me speak, and she listened.

“Have you seen your dad since?” she finally asked.

Your dad. The words were so foreign. I referred to him as my father only to identify the twenty-two year old man that preyed on a seventeen year old girl, and I was the result.

“I saw him today,” I told her. “I see him every weekend.”

Which was true. Even though I technically didn’t get my last visit.