Bruises

16: get out

The aroma that dances throughout the numerous aisles of the local grocery store, weaving in and out of the bustling bodies, is nothing short of unique: an amalgam of produce, packaging, and people. Hand-in-hand with the smell comes the gentle beeping from the checkout lines, clattering of cart wheels against the cold tile, and the hum of talk amongst shoppers.

Ayden and I ease our way through the entirety of the building, shopping for the items I had previously noted on my phone. Every week, it is my implied responsibility to go out and shop for me and my father's groceries; without the weekly trip, the only thing in the house would be liquor and beer.

My father barely manages to get out of the house; he remains idle, hidden inside, with the exceptions of getting alcohol and occasionally visiting my mother's grave. Not too long ago he lost his job. One would expect this, given his inability to consistently show his face. When he would show, there was always a good chance of him being undeniably hungover or even buzzed.

Thankfully, my mother's parents still graciously provide us with what's needed to get by. This aid is no problem given their past, powerful presence in business.

With their money, I pay and Ayden and I finish checking out. The cold air nibbles at our cheeks as we step outside, causing them to lightly flush. As quickly as we can, we transfer the bags from the cart into the trunk of my car.

"Could you come back home with me and unload these?" The bitter air hits my teeth as I open my mouth to speak. My request prompts a look of worry to blossom across Ayden's face. His full lips part slightly, his sharp jaw shifting.

"I mean, yes," he stutters, "but what about your-"

"My dad?"

"Yes, I mean is he going to want me there? I don't know with how he is if he's going to want anyone-"

"Ayden!" I cut him off, my lips pulling into a smirk. "It's fine. I don't think he's going to be drinking on a Sunday afternoon. Also, this will be good. You guys can meet." I breathed out a sigh that was trapped in my chest, prompting butterflies to tickle my stomach.

"Does he know about me?"

I pause and feel my cheeks blush. The talking between my father and I is at a minimum, especially that encompassing my social life and love interests. Ayden lightly winces at my silence.

"Ayden, my father is drunk a hell of a lot," I cock my head as I continue with my defense, "Do you really think I have a whole bunch of time to discuss with him who I'm kissing?" The sarcasm in my retort is thick, but the statement is harshly true.

Ayden shrugs in response, a gleam of understanding flourishing in his eyes.

My chilled hands start up the Malibu as Ayden hurries to put the cart back and rush into the passenger seat. In a swift five minutes, we're parked back at the house, the car softly rumbling  in the dim garage. For a few seconds, we soak up the warmth of the vehicle, inwardly cursing the unpleasant winter weather. Why did I have to be named after such a season, of all things?

The house is silent, natural light cascading through the windows, providing the house with an almost serene glow. The appearance would be calming if it weren't for the memories trapped inside of the walls of the home.

As we're setting the first round of groceries down, Ayden's eyes wander from corner to corner, soaking up the entirety of it all: the furniture slightly imperfect and the lingering smell of alcohol. Upon the living room table is an arrangement of beer bottles and a large, half-empty bottle of vodka; embarrassed, I cringe and steer my eyes away.

We make our way back outside, weaving our arms through the handles of the grocery bags, trying to carry as many as possible at once.

"Winter," Ayden's husky voice sends shivers running up my spine. His voice is low in an attempt to remain quiet, despite us being outside.

"Yes?"

"I'm about to meet the man that hurt you," he breathes, his eyes pouring into mine, "hurts you."

Something seems to snake around my throat, prohibiting the normalcy of breathing. I meet his stare, an uncomfortable feeling spreading through my limbs, all the way down to my feet.

"Ayden," my voice cracks, "please, don't."

He drops his head and an understanding appears to develop between the two of us; now is not the time to dwell on such things.

We're greeted with the melody of steps upon the stairs as we step into the warmth of the house once more. My heartbeat seems to spike, thundering against my chest with nerves. Ayden seems to freeze, but my continued movement forces him to shake off the feeling that seemingly struck him.

Around the corner comes my father. His hair is lightly ruffled from sleep, a large t-shirt pulled across his broad shoulders, his long pants brushing against the floor. A look of confusion evolves across his face, his eyes trained on Ayden. Ayden's tall, muscular figure stiffens behind me, his breathing short and rushed.

"Who is this?" My father croaks, his voice raspy and thick with the desire to know.

"Dad," I slowly advance towards him, placing the groceries on the counter, "this is my boyfriend."

His face contorts upon the final word, his eyes looking past me and deep into Ayden. Ayden straightens his posture, his broad chest protruding, and reaches out past me to take my father's hand. With hesitation, my father reaches out to meet the invitation.

"My name's Ayden Jones, sir," forcibly, a smile is painted across his face, "it's a pleasure to meet you."

With the collision of their hands, the room appeared to shrink, crashing in upon us like the relentless waves of the ocean.

"Excuse me?" My father growls, pulling his hand away as if Ayden had burnt him. Discomfort blossoms in my chest as I observe my dad and his drastic change in manner.

"Um," Ayden stutters, taken by surprise, "Ayden Jones, sir." His voice audibly cracks, causing me to wince.

"Jones," my father scoffs, pressing his hand against his forehead as if he's suffering from a piercing headache. "I'm sorry, but that just can't be!" His voice is laced with absolute bewilderment.

"Dad!" I hiss, pushing myself closer to Ayden, as if in defense.

"Winter," he bitterly retorts, his face suddenly flushed with unreasonable anger. I twist my head back to see Ayden's eyes glossed over, focusing on my father.

"What the hell is your problem?"

"My problem is him!" His volume rises, his finger shakingly pointing at Ayden, whose face is washed out, pale and cold.

"I'm sorry, sir," Ayden's voice is merely above a whisper, his body still stone solid, pressed lightly against my backside.

"Just get the hell out of my house," he snarls. If it weren't for the dim kitchen light that illimunates the scene, one might ponder the possibility of him foaming at the mouth.

"Dad, there's nothing wrong!"

"I said get the HELL out of my house!" His voice is a thundering roar, one that shakes the house. Ayden stands there, his muscles tense, his eyes clouding over with something unexpected: understanding. With weak legs and tears piercing the corners of my eyes, I gently usher Ayden out through the garage door.

With groceries still sitting on the counter and some still in the trunk, I drive off, my vision and my mind clouded with sorrow and misunderstanding. I say nothing as I navigate my way to Ayden's house. By the time we pull into his driveway, my sobs are audible, my shoulders shaking.

"I'm so sorry," I choke, Ayden's arms wrapping around me.

"Winter," he pulls me away from his embrace, his beautiful eyes connecting with mine, "it's okay. It's okay."

I hang my head low, shaking it in disagreement. It isn't okay. It is anything but okay.

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hello friends! here is my first chapter after not writing for a long while! i hope you enjoyed, i missed writing so much and haven't gotten the opportunity to do so in quite some time :-)

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