Hold Us Close (Keep Me Still) Read Online Free Page A

Landen. Don’t say those words out loud. Because once you do, then we’re ruined. No matter what happens, you’ll never be able to un-say those awful words. Promise me you won’t say them. Promise me.”
    Understanding flashes in his eyes and he nods. I remove my hand from his mouth and back up a step, nearly slamming into the computer desk. His gaze flickers to the door and I want to slap him. He always does this. Runs. Bails when anything gets too intense. We’re having a baby he doesn’t want and his idea of dealing with it is going for a run. For the first time since we met almost five years ago, I realize I hate him. Oh, I still love him. But I hate him a little bit too. I didn’t even know I was capable of hatred. The realization makes me feel sick.
    I sigh and yank myself away from him.
    This is a first. This time, I’m the one who walks out.

T he sound of the drywall giving way against my fist is only slightly satisfying. The pain distracts me but only momentarily. For all the years I wished to escape my father and his hatred, I’ve spent more time than I want to admit wishing he was still around to kick my ass. Apparently I’m sick and twisted and need it.
    What a great parent I’m going to make.
    You are worthless.
    The burning heat of my rage flares inside of me. It’s red, darkening to black, and then white-hot and blinding.
    You ruin everything.
    Glass shatters on the floor but I don’t even know what I’ve hit. My fist connects again with something solid but I don’t feel one iota of relief. So I hit it again and again with the soundtrack of my dad’s voice telling me exactly what he thinks, what he knows, is true.
    Her chance to have the ax of doom hanging over our heads removed finally came, and I fucked it up. Life as we knew it is ruined. Destroyed.
    Much like our apartment.

    W hen I come to, I’m sitting on our bathroom floor, propped against the doorframe. Surrounded by broken ceramic tiles, a cabinet door I must’ve torn from its hinges, and my own shame.
    What the hell?
    My left hand hurts like a son of a bitch. Glancing down, I see it’s swollen and my knuckles are caked with dried blood. My right hand isn’t much better. Looks like I clawed my way out of a wooden box.
    Jesus.
    Groaning, I use the sink to pull myself up. My bloodshot eyes widen in the shattered mirror.
    Because it isn’t my reflection staring back at me. It’s my father’s.
    Before I have time to fully freak the fuck out, I hear the front door open. And there’s a gasp. I turn in the doorway as quickly as I can manage, hoping I can somehow shield her from the destruction.
    But I don’t make it.
    When I step over the pieces of busted lamp in the middle of the living room floor, she gapes at me. The horror and hurt shine from her face so brightly I can’t look directly at her.
    “Baby, I’m…” What am I? There’s nothing I can say to make this any better. I watch her take in the evidence of my rage, watch her run her hand gently over the splintered glass covering the picture her friend Corin took of us when she and Skylar visited last summer.
    “You’re broken,” she whispers, eying a vase of seashell pieces she adds to every time we go to the ocean. Miraculously, it’s still intact.
    Am I? Pain shoots up my arms as I attempt to clench my fists. Yes, yes I am.
    My soul tears in two as I watch her grieve for every piece of damaged furniture. I’m two men now. One of them loves her so much he wants to drop to his knees, beg for forgiveness, and make a million promises—whatever it takes to keep her here. To keep her from saying to hell with this. With me.
    The other one sees past the most recent destruction as the older evidence of my temper comes into view. Small cracks and dents I’ve made over the years. I don’t deserve her forgiveness. I’m never going to change.
    She needs to see.
    She needs to understand.
    I can’t do this.

E veryone can leave. I learned at a young age that nothing is