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He takes a deep breath, and I can almost see him pulling the memories from some dark corner of his mind.
His face tightens, jaw clenching like he’s bracing for impact.
“My mom . . . she overdosed on heroin,” he starts, his eyes distant, lost in the past. “I came home that night, found her . . . cold, lifeless. Empty eyes. My old man wasn’t there. Probably at some bar, or with some other woman.”
My heart aches at the pain in his voice, but I stay silent, letting him continue.
“He came back hours later. Stumbled through the door, reeking of booze and cheap perfume. I told him she was dead, Jordyn. Told him my mother was gone.” His voice cracks, and he pauses, swallowing hard. “You know what he did? Nothing. Not a damn thing. Didn’t care. He said she was a waste of space.”
The anger in his voice is palpable now, simmering just beneath the surface.
I can almost see the young boy he must have been, standing there, shattered by grief and rage.
“All he ever did was drink, beat her, cheat on her,” Bama continues, his voice trembling with emotion. “Every day was a nightmare. And seeing him stand there, so indifferent . . . I lost it, Jordyn. I lost control. I was furious.”
His words hang heavy in the air, the weight of them pressing down on us both.
I squeeze his hand, trying to anchor him, to let him know I’m here.
“That’s the truth,” he finishes, eyes locking onto mine, ocean blue depths swirling with torment. “That’s what happened.”
I nod slowly, my mind reeling from the intensity of his confession.
I can’t change his past, can’t take away the pain he’s endured. But maybe, just maybe, I can help him carry it.
Bama's hand trembles beneath mine, the rawness of his confession hanging between us like a storm cloud ready to break.
“Why didn't you tell me before?” My question comes out sharper than I intended, but I can’t help it. My head’s spinning.
“How could I?” He looks down, shame flooding his features. “It’s not exactly first date material, you know?”
“Still . . .” I trail off, struggling to reconcile the Bama I’ve known with the one sitting before me now.
“Jordyn, please,” he whispers, eyes filled with torment. “It’s ugly, but it’s the truth.”
“Tell me why,” I say, voice steadier now. “Why’d you slit his wrists?”
“To protect myself. To make sure no one would ever suspect a scared, broken kid did it.” He swallows hard, the weight of his actions dragging him down. “It worked, or at least I think it did. I haven’t heard anything.”
“Wow.” I draw in a shaky breath, trying to process everything. Bama’s past is a dark labyrinth, filled with shadows and secrets.
Yet here I am, standing at the entrance, unsure if I want to venture inside.
I pull my hand away like I’ve been burned.
The warmth of his skin replaced by a cold shock running down my spine.
My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing the disbelief coursing through me.
Murder. Bama, my Bama, capable of murder.
“Anyone else know what you did?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, yet sharp enough to cut through the thick tension between us.
He looks down, the weight of his confession pressing his shoulders low. “Zorro knows,” he mutters. “And Zorro told Zane.”
The names hang heavy in the air. Zorro, who has been part of the club for years, and Zane, my cousin, the President.
The revelation slices through me, leaving me raw and exposed.
