Chapter 4: Shattered Trust in the Rain

The man who dragged me in was drunk, his beard scratching my neck as he pulled me deeper into the shadows. He reeked of whiskey and cigarettes, breath hot and sour.

I panicked, fighting wildly. My backpack fell, textbooks spilling across the dirty alley.

He was stronger than any kid I’d fought—arms thick, grip like iron. One hand clamped over my mouth, muffling my screams.

I bit down hard and punched and kicked, tasting sweat, dirt, and desperation.

He smashed his bottle on the ground. Glass shards slashed my shoulder, blood soaking through my shirt.

I kicked him hard in the groin, and when he doubled over, I ran—legs pumping, adrenaline burning away my cramps.

I didn’t stop until I reached the house, lungs on fire. My hands shook as I tried to unlock the front door, breath ragged. When I finally made it inside and caught my reflection—dirty, bruised, but alive—my breath caught again.

The house was silent, the clock striking midnight. Nathan’s room was dark—he was probably dreaming of Ashley.

In the bathroom mirror, I peeled off my shirt. A deep gash bled on my shoulder, blood turning the cotton rust-colored. My back was bruised, purple and green.

I dabbed hydrogen peroxide on my cuts, the fizzing sting nothing compared to the ache in my chest as Nathan’s words replayed again and again.

In a daze, I remembered being seventeen—getting hurt defending Nathan in the cafeteria, blood dripping on the linoleum. Back then, Nathan had gently cleaned my wound, frowning as he signed: "Don’t be so reckless next time. When you get hurt, that’s when I feel bad."

Growing up in that rotten group home, kindness was a foreign language. We watched reruns of old sitcoms on a busted TV, the laugh track echoing off peeling walls. But Nathan’s rare gentleness? I’d treasured it like winter rations.

That day, as he squatted in front of me, pointing to his heart, something bloomed inside me—dangerous hope, maybe love.

Now, struggling to patch up my own wounds, I barely recognized the girl in the mirror.

My phone buzzed—a recording from Ashley. Her contact photo smiled mockingly.

In the recording, Ashley chirped: "What’s your relationship with Emma? Why does she go to and from school with you every day? Are you two childhood sweethearts? Like in those Netflix movies?"

Nathan paused, then answered coldly: "No. God, no. She’s the caregiver my mother brought from the group home. Like a hired companion, basically. Clings like Saran wrap. Says she wants to go to New York with me after graduation. So annoying. Can’t shake her off. If you mind, I won’t walk with her anymore. I’ll have her go home by herself."

Each replay made my chest squeeze tighter, like my ribs were shrinking.

Maybe my back hurt too much, or maybe the words hurt more—I couldn’t hold back the tears. They mixed with blood and hydrogen peroxide, pink drops on the tile.

How strange: fighting off a drunk in an alley, I hadn’t cried. But now, I couldn’t stop. Like a faucet with a busted handle.

Being dragged into that alley, that second when my heart stopped, canceled out the second of hope I’d once felt for Nathan.

I didn’t want to like Nathan anymore.

So after graduation, I went to find Mrs. Miller. She’d told me to apply to the same university as Nathan, but I couldn’t do it anymore. I wanted to go somewhere no one knew I’d been bought from a group home.

I pressed play one last time, even though I already knew what he’d say. Still, I couldn’t stop listening.