I don't remember when he started paying attention to me but my first memory of him is my eighth birthday.

I'm changing into my bathing suit since we're going to the beach, and as I'm sliding it up my toothpick legs, my bathroom door opens.

Christian stands in the doorway. His eyes, so vastly dark, watch me. He doesn't say anything.

"I'm changing!" I shriek, covering my chest and stomach with my hands. I'm paralyzed with shock and embarrassment. No one, not even my dad, has ever walked in on me like this.

He doesn't reply, just stands there for an agonizing amount of time before he closes the door.

My heart thundering in my ears, I snap the top of my shiny, new one piece up my chest and along my shoulders. My bathing suit is light-blue, and the skirt is shimmery, watercolor of blues, greens, and teals. I look at my reflection, wondering why Christian looked like that, why he stared at me like that. It makes my stomach hurt.

I push my thoughts aside and fix the thick, chunky straps of my bathing suit, examining myself. I shut off the light, pull open the door, and head downstairs. My mother is in her bedroom still, rooting around for the ancient can of sunscreen that she swear up and down she has, and Bob is loading up the cooler with juice boxes and snacks for later.

When I walk into the living room to sit on the love-seat until we leave, I find Christian watching some golf tournament or something on the TV. My heart starts to pound.

He turns to me and smiles a charming smile. "Hey there," he says pleasantly as he scoots over, giving me ample space to sit down. I feel naked and exposed in my bathing suit as I sit beside him, the cold leather sticking to my bare legs. There's a canyon of space between us, and he keeps his distance.

Maybe I'm imagining his weird staring and his refusal to move.

Maybe I should've been more wary.

Dinner is quiet with Christian's hand on my leg pinning me to my seat. His fingers are hard, boring holes into my bone, as he eats one-handed; everyone is none the wiser of where his hand rests. His thumb brushes under the hem of my dress.

I think I'm going to vomit. I stare down at my plate, pushing the pasta around with my fork, as his hand creeps higher. I'm tempted to lock my knees together, tempted to shove his hand off my leg, but I'm scared of what he'll do. How he'll hurt me. So I stay still like a rabbit locked in the eyes of a snake, my muscles aching from tensing so much, as I take a forkful into my mouth and chew.

It tastes like dirt, even though Bob's cooking has always been fantastic. Maybe it's because I'm next to this wicked, deplorable man with a concrete mask my mother can't see through. His fingers brush the edge of my panties, and my mouth is flooded with vomit. I'm going to be sick. Really and truly sick. I jump to my feet and hurry to the bathroom, slamming the door shut as I fall to my knees and everything I've ever eaten spills out of my stomach in a tidal wave. My stomach is cramping as the waves push more and more out of me, until, finally, there's nothing left to push, and all I can do is gasp and shiver there on the linoleum of the floor.

"Honey?"

It's my mom.

A few tears escape before I can stop them, and they're still rolling down my vomit-speckled cheeks when she pushes open the door. She spots me and crouches down and smooths my hair away from my sweaty face. "Oh, honey," she murmurs.

A figure darkens the doorway. My heart constricts of its own accord as Christian peers in, his face expressionless, but his eyes are blazing. It makes me shrink back. My mom turns, finds Christian lurking, and frowns at him.

"Can you go get Bob? He's probably worried about her," she says lightly, but her hand on my shoulder is heavy. Weighing me down and keeping me in place. Her grip is soft and gentle, belying the heaviness of her palm.

He doesn't immediately leave to go do that. He stands there, staring at my mother and I, his face slowly turning red.

"Chris!" she urges.

His gaze dart to mine, holds it for what feels like forever, before he reluctantly skulks away. His footsteps fade down the hall, and my lungs refill with air. I can breathe again.

"Ana, what in the world is going on?"

I swallow hard. "I think my period's about to start," I lie and think about the past.