"You ungrateful bitch. I keep a roof over your head, and this is the thanks I get?"
"You could have killed her," I retort, trying to muster up confidence that I don't possess. "What if she goes to the cops, Dad? That bruise on her face is enough to...
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The trailer is empty when I arrive.
I expected to find Hank on the sofa, a beer in his hand and a cigarette dangling out of his mouth, but the only thing here to greet me is the leftover stench of stale tobacco.
I tiptoe toward my old bedroom. Shockingly, it hasn't been touched since I left. I figured Hank would have raided it in search of booze or cash, but not a single book is out of place.
Sitting on my bed, I pick up my faded copy of Fahrenheit 451. Something falls out—a sheet of lined notebook paper. I unfold the parchment and find a message in ink.
I got worried when I didn't see you after school. I figured you were upset and thought chocolate might make you feel better. See you at school tomorrow.
- Damian
Tears cascade down my cheeks, landing on the note and blurring the words together. I refold the sheet and stick it back into the book, unsure why I kept it after all this time. He wrote that for me three years ago, just after Ada was sent away.
So much has happened since then. We've been to hell and back, yet here we are, still attached at the hip. The only difference now is we've seen each other naked.
No, scratch that. That isn't the only difference. Now we're in love. Madly, deeply, irreversibly in love.
And I'm an idiot for allowing the mere sight of him and Jessica together to make me doubt that.
God, what am I doing here? Clutching the book in my hand, I exit my childhood bedroom, vowing to never return to this loveless place.
Four walls might make a house, but not a home.
As I approach the front door, I hear the all too familiar shuffling of feet. Frozen in place, I watch as the door swings open, revealing Hank in all of his drunken glory.
He blinks, his hazel eyes wide as he stares me up and down, clearly just as surprised as I am.
"Hi." The word leaves my mouth as a whisper. I glance down; my hands are shaking like branches in the wind.
His lips spread into a convoluted smirk that chills me to my core. "You picked the wrong day to come here," he hisses.
"I'm leaving now."
"You sure 'bout that?"
"Hank, please." My fingers find the scar on the back of my head, and my thoughts go back to Christmas Day. It's morbidly ironic that he left me for dead in a graveyard. It's seriously screwed up that he left me for dead at all.
"I just spent that past few hours with Heather Jermain," he tells me with an angry shake of his head. "My god, what a bitch. Thinks she's hot shit because she's a lawyer."
