Chapter 2

The shout echoed in the bedroom. Matthias froze for a few seconds, then sneered and turned his head away.

I knew he was remembering the time he went to prison for me.

That year, he was fourteen.

His mother had taken me in after my parents died.

But the condition was that every evening after school, I had to wear revealing clothes and stand at the door.

That day, my school uniform was torn, my face covered in handprints, as his mother dragged me out by my hair.

Matthias knelt at his mother's feet, his forehead bleeding from hitting the ground.

But his mother just laughed:

"Do you know why your father abandoned us?

"That woman looked exactly like her!"

She cut toward my underwear:

"If you like seducing men so much, there are plenty of them outside!"

"Mom!!" A desperate roar.

A baseball bat left a dent in her skull.

When the surgery room lights went out, the doctor said they'd done all they could.

Matthias collapsed to his knees. As they took him away, he looked back at me.

No blame, no resentment.

He went to juvenile detention. I, previously ranked second in my grade, became first.

When he got out, he'd already missed his best years.

He was taller, thinner. He smiled at me and said:

"Seeing you succeed academically puts my mind at ease."

Back then, I swore I'd love only him for the rest of my life.

Ten years later, I hate that he's still the only one in my heart.

Matthias exhaled:

"What's the point of bringing up the past over and over?"

My fists trembled as I looked at him.

"Christiana, do you know why I was willing to go so far back then?"

My voice shook: "Why..."

"Because I was young and naive."

"What are you saying..."

He leaned closer:

"At fourteen, how many people had we even met?

"We'd meet someone who made our hearts race and couldn't help but imagine an entire lifetime together. But how many fourteen-year-olds fit into one lifetime?"

I couldn't speak.

He smiled: "Are you still living at fourteen? After all these years, Christiana, can't you grow up?"

My eyes stung despite myself.

He laughed, picked up his jacket, and turned:

"The past is past. Let it go."

"Let it go?"

My voice was hoarse: "What about you fighting for me, leaving the gang for me?

"How am I supposed to forget that?"

His footsteps stopped.