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But that’s because they didn’t really know him. In reality, it was probably a good thing he didn’t have a family, because he’d only fuck them up like he’d fucked me up.
My mom acted like she was going to get up—she sat on the floor near Claire and Tyler, engrossed in their ugly sweater conversation—but then she glanced at me and said, “Charlie, will you get Dave some eggnog?” She didn’t wait for me to say okay; she went back to the conversation, acting like I barely existed.
That’s how it’d always been, though. Claire was their first born, their everything. I was the daughter that came half a decade later. I was always just sort of there, and I think that’s what led to my downfall.
I didn’t say a word, grateful for the temporary reprieve from being so close to Uncle Dave. I hurried to the kitchen, and once I was alone in the kitchen, I became a snail. Heck, even a snail moved faster than me, but that’s because I was being deliberately sluggish.
My walk to the cabinet where the glasses were. Opening up said cabinet. Carefully choosing the correct glass and plucking it out. Inspecting the glass like I was looking for defects. That sort of thing. Anything could be prolonged if you knew how to fart around.
I’d just set the glass down on the counter near the fridge, about to open the door to retrieve the eggnog when I heard footsteps behind me. The short hairs on the back of my neck prickled in anticipation. Somehow, I knew who’d come to join me in the kitchen without looking. Like I was psychic or something.
“Your dad told me you broke up with that Zak kid,” Uncle Dave’s voice sounded terribly close, like he was less than two feet behind me. “What happened?” Superficially, it sounded like he cared, but I knew the second I turned around to face him, I’d stare into his dark eyes and see the truth.
I hated that his eyes were like mine. It made me hate my eyes even more. The color of stiff shit and the same color as Uncle Dave’s eyes. They were my dad’s eyes too, but somehow, on Dad’s face, they looked warmer, more like Claire’s amber stare.
My arm fell away from the fridge, and I turned around to see that he stood directly behind me, a curious look on his face. When I didn’t say anything, he went on, “What’d he do? Or were you the one who did something?”
I felt myself backing up toward the fridge door—and just in time, too, because Uncle Dave threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure we were alone, and then he took a step closer to me.
He wasn’t that tall. Maybe five foot eight, but it was enough to tower over me. And when he gave me that look, it made me feel like I was thrown back in time, still a child, still stupidly listening to him and wanting his love.
Children were so easy to fool, easy to lie to, and he’d taken advantage of that over and over.
“It doesn’t matter.” My voice trembled only a little, and I swallowed. Trapped between him and the fridge, I’d never felt more alone. My parents, my sister, and Tyler were in the other room, but they might as well have been miles away. No one ever seemed to notice or care when we went missing for a while.
“No, I guess it doesn’t,” he agreed. His hands were in his pockets, but I could tell he was itching to pull them out. Itching to touch me.
And if he did, he’d feel the new scars on my inner thighs. He’d know, and that might just be worse than anything else. Never thought I could feel worse than what I did currently, but that realization made me feel even sicker to my stomach.
God, I wanted to shrink away and cease to exist. I didn’t want him to know I’d been so upset over Zak that I’d hurt myself. And what’s more than that, I’d wanted to die, because Zak had been the only good thing in my life for so long. I couldn’t kill myself, so I’d settled for some pain to remind me that I was still alive.
Being alive sucked.
He pulled out one of his hands, bringing it to my face and trailing those fingers down my jawline. A soft touch, the kind that made butterflies in your stomach… if it was done by someone you liked. This time, I only felt nauseous.
“I knew you and that kid wouldn’t last,” he whispered, sounding quite assured about it all. Like, deep down, he’d always known I’d come back to him—but that was the thing. I never came to him. He was the one coming to me, never vice versa.
Uncle Dave tossed another glance over his shoulder before he leaned down. His breath was hot on my face, his black eyes boring into me in a way no other set of eyes could, pinning me in place. “I told you from the beginning, didn’t I? Everyone else will only hurt you, Charlie. I’m the only one who never will.”
If I had more balls, I’d argue with him. I’d scream. I’d push him away and do something. Anything. But all I could do was stand there and wish this moment would be over.
“That boy could never know you like I do,” he whispered.
And that, as much as I didn’t want to believe it, was the truth.
A year and some odd months had passed, and now we stood, staring at each other. Uncle Dave looked a little thinner than he used to be, but underneath the stubble and the slightly longer hair, he was the same man.
And he was here.
Why? Why was he here?
My chest grew tight, and Uncle Dave stepped closer, giving me that smile. Now that I’d been around a serial killer, I knew exactly what kind of smile that was now: a predator’s smile. The kind of smile one flashed when one knew they were getting away with the world.
And Uncle Dave got away with a hell of a lot.
“Am I allowed inside, or should I go back out in the rain?” Uncle Dave asked. He sounded good-natured, but that was his thing. He always sounded easygoing and kind, when in reality, he was the exact opposite. Conniving. Manipulative. The kind of man who’d take advantage of a small child, twist her love for him and get her to keep the worst kind of secret.
Uncle Dave was the man who’d made me a liar. He taught me how to keep secrets, how to pretend like everything was fine when it wasn’t.
