Julianna

My breath turned to stone in my windpipe. "What do you mean, you killed her?"

He rubbed his face and began to turn away.

I grabbed his arms, forcing him to face me. I could not believe that Roman killed his mother. I couldn't. "Roman. Tell me. Please?"

He inhaled sharply and dropped his hand from his face, revealing glassy eyes. "That night she was supposed to sit up on the roof of the house with me. It was our spot. Our thing, to look at stars. She had gotten a call from my father. I knew it was him because she had that look on her face when she got off the phone, tight mouth, unfocused eyes. She told me she had to go somewhere, she wouldn't tell me why. I was upset that she was ditching me. I had yelled at her that she didn't love me and slammed my bedroom door in her face. I heard her apologizing through my door, begging me to unlock it, to hug her before she left. But I didn't and she gave up. I felt like such a shit. So I ran downstairs to catch her before she left."

Roman took in a deep breath and let it out audibly. I realized then that I had been holding mine. He sat on the bed, his shoulders slumping, as if the weight of his story was so heavy he could not hold it any longer.

I sat down next to him, pulled his hand into both of mine and squeezed. I'm here.

"I heard her muffled scream," he said, "as I approached the garage. I froze in the doorway. She was in the front seat of her car, struggling with someone in the backseat. He had his hand over her mouth, a knife in his hand."

I sucked in a breath. "Did you see his face?"

He shook his head. "He was wearing a mask. The driver's door was open, an unlit cigarette fallen on the floor."

"Your mother's cigarette?" I asked.

He nodded. "She started smoking a few months before. I hated it. She only ever smoked in the car…or when she was out…" he trailed off.

"Roman, you don't have to tell me any more."

He shook his head. Despite the pain showing through the cracks in his face, I could see that he needed to speak, to finally pull this burden off his shoulders and share it. I waited for him to continue. We sat in silence. We sat so long in silence I thought he would not go on.

"She must have pressed the cigarette lighter on as soon as she got into the car. She plunged it into the back of her assailant's hand, burning him. He screamed and let go of her. I remember seeing a red circular burn on the back of his hand. She scrambled out of the car and tripped to the ground. Her eyes locked on mine. She screamed at me to run! Run! All the while I was screaming at myself to...to do something. To stop him. But I couldn't move.

"He was too fast. He was suddenly behind her, grabbing her. I still couldn't move. I just watched as his knife sliced across her neck."

"Roman, you didn't kill her. He did."

"I did nothing to stop it."

"You were only twelve."

"I was old enough." The pain reflected in Roman's broken eyes reached into my chest and squeezed at my heart. He looked just like a boy at that moment: lost and scared. I swallowed back my tears. No child should ever, ever have to go through something like that.

"He sliced her throat and then he dropped her. He just stared at me for a few seconds, black beady eyes from two slits in his mask. Then he ran. Only then did I go to her. But it was too late… Her blood was spreading all around her. Afterwards, I didn't say a word to the police. I just remembered what my father always said, ‘never to talk to the coppers'. I said nothing. He got away with it."

I wanted to tell him not to give up hope. That one day his mother's murderer would be brought to justice. But it would be a lie. I couldn't even bring my own mother's murderer to justice.

"I loved her so much," he said, "but it didn't matter. I couldn't protect her…"

So he couldn't protect me, I filled in what was left unsaid. A missing piece fell into place. This was why Roman kept pushing me away. He was afraid of loving me. He was afraid that he couldn't protect me. He was afraid that one day he would lose me the same way that he lost his mother.

I turned back to the seashell frame and traced the faint broken cracks that now seemed so obvious. If only hearts were as easy to fix. "I wished I had known her," I said.

He gave me a small smile, the tension slowly lifting as he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into his lap. "She would have loved you."

I felt a tiny sun glowing in my chest. "You think so?"

"Yeah. You're as stubborn as she was."

I slapped his arm.

He let out a soft chuckle. "I didn't say that was a bad thing. You're alike in a lot of ways, actually."

"Oh?"

"You're both beautiful, radiant, independent, stubborn. And…" he added quietly, "you care too much for all the wrong men."

I began to protest but something in his eyes appeared distant and dulled, his arms suddenly stiff like a wooden puppet. He had shut himself off to me in an instant.

It hit me like a knife in the gut. He truly believed he was the wrong man for me. Nothing I could say or do would ever convince him otherwise.

I realized then, the greatest danger that we faced was not his family, but himself. Our relationship would never survive. Because he would never believe he was worth it.