Breaking the ice

Grace

The walls of my childhood home in Willow Springs, Texas, held secrets that no one outside its doors ever knew. To the world, I was Grace Carter—the pretty cheerleader with a bright smile, the girl who always had a book in her hands, the one who seemed to have it all together. But inside that house, where the air reeked of whiskey and shattered glass, I was just another person trying to survive.

I learned young that silence was safer than words.

My father, once a man with laughter in his voice, had become a stranger over the years—a shadow of the man my mother used to love. It started slowly, the drinking. A few beers after work. A couple of nights where he stumbled a little too much. Then, before I even had time to recognize the shift, alcohol became his only companion. And with it came the rage.

At first, it was just words. Sharp, cutting insults disguised as disappointment. A slap of a bottle on the table. A door slammed hard enough to make the walls tremble. Then it turned into something worse—shouting that shook the house, hands that gripped too tight, bruises hidden beneath long sleeves and makeup.

I used to wonder if it was my fault. If maybe, just maybe, I could do something different—be better, quieter, more obedient—and it would change him. That maybe he'd see me and remember that I was his daughter, not just another thing to take his anger out on. But nothing I did was ever enough.

The first time he hit me, I was fifteen. He'd come home late, drunk, after spending the night at a bar. I had been doing my homework, trying to keep myself invisible. But when he stumbled in, shouting about something ridiculous, I tried to tell him to quiet down—just to stop.

That's when the slap came. It wasn't just a slap, though. It was his whole body behind it, the weight of his disappointment and anger crashing into me. I remember the sting of his palm against my face, how it made my vision blur for a moment. I fell to the floor, my knees buckling under the force of it.

The first words out of his mouth were the same ones I heard too many times: "What did you do to make me do that?"

I had no answer.

The blows weren't always like that. Sometimes, he'd yell. Sometimes, he'd throw things. There were nights I'd wake up to the sound of things crashing in the living room—of the door slamming as he came home from another binge. But as the years passed, the physical blows became more frequent, more painful. It was a slow descent, a steady unraveling of the man I once thought I knew.

When my mom finally left, I thought things might get better. But she left me behind. I was sixteen when she packed her bags in the middle of the night and disappeared without a word, leaving me alone with him. I had no idea where she went—if she was safe, if she ever thought about me, if she even cared. The only thing I knew was that I had to fend for myself.

It was the hardest thing to face, knowing that she had chosen him over me—no matter how many times he'd hurt me, no matter how many promises he broke. She was gone. And I was stuck, left to pick up the pieces of the life she abandoned.

That was when I learned how to wear a mask.

I buried the pain in the darkest corners of my heart, kept the cracks hidden from everyone. At school, I became the girl people expected me to be. The cheerleader with the effortless smile, the student who kept her grades up, the one who never let anyone see the cracks in the surface. Books became my escape, the only place where I could live a life that wasn't mine. A life where fathers weren't monsters, where mothers didn't leave, where love wasn't something that hurt.

No one knew the truth. Not my teachers. Not my teammates. Not even Emma, though she probably suspected more than she let on. I spent every day hiding, wearing my mask so well that no one ever asked if I was okay. It was easier that way. No one had to know.

And then, one day, I made the decision to leave.

I couldn't stay in Willow Springs, couldn't stay under that roof. The fear of what would happen if my father found out where I was—it was too much. He still tried to reach me, still tried to show up at my school or send messages through my mom's friends. But I had a plan. I applied to Westbridge University, packed my things, and left.

I never told him. I didn't want him to know. The thought of him following me, of him showing up at my doorstep, was enough to make my skin crawl. Westbridge was far enough away that I could start over. I had to disappear, to escape the man who made me question whether I was worthy of love or safety.

I arrived at Westbridge with nothing but the hope that I could start fresh. That I could be someone else—someone strong. I was Grace Carter now. Not the daughter of an abusive drunk, not the girl who learned how to hide bruises under makeup. Just Grace Carter. The cheerleader with a smile, the girl who everyone thought had it all together.

But even now, in the safety of my dorm room, I still feel his presence sometimes.

I let out a shaky breath and grabbed the novel for my English project, forcing myself to focus. Symbolism in literature. I had read about resilience a thousand times before, seen it in characters who fought battles and won. But what about the ones who didn't? What about the ones who just endured? Was that resilience, too?

A knock at my door startled me, and I quickly tugged my sleeve down before standing up. When I opened it, Emma stood there, her arms crossed, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Why do you look like you've just seen a ghost?" she asked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

I forced a laugh. "I'm fine."

Emma arched a brow, clearly unconvinced. "Liar. You only say you're fine when you're definitely not fine."

I rolled my eyes and flopped onto my bed. "Just... thinking."

"About?"

I hesitated, then sighed. "The project. Jaxon."

At his name, Emma perked up, sitting on the edge of my bed with a knowing look. "Oh, so that's what's on your mind."

I shot her a glare. "It's not like that. He's—" I paused, searching for the right word. Complicated? Infuriating? Intriguing? "—just not what I expected."

Emma smirked. "So you did expect something."

I groaned, burying my face in my pillow. "Why are you like this?"

"Because I know you," she said simply. "And I know when someone is getting under your skin."

I didn't answer. Because maybe she was right. Maybe, despite my best efforts, Jaxon Reed was getting under my skin.

But what scared me more?

For the first time in a long time, someone was challenging me. And I wasn't sure I was ready for that.