Chapter Eight
Jace
Cold air seeps through the thin walls of the trailer and sinks into my bones. The heater broke a fortnight ago, and I haven’t had the money to replace it. It’s not exactly the kind of thing you find sitting on the curb this time of year, waiting for some fool to drag it home and call it an upgrade.
The couch beneath me is stained and sagging in the middle, with its springs pressing into my back every time I shift my weight.
But it has been my home for the past nine years.
Ever since my vile aunt decided I was too much trouble to keep in the house.
Likely to fuck up her perfect little life.
That I would be a bad influence on her precious sons, that I bring trouble with me wherever I go.
So she bought this piece of shit trailer, parked it out back and called it independence.
It’s out of sight. Out of mind. Let’s not dress it up as something it’s clearly not.
It is a little past twelve o’clock. I clocked off work an hour ago, grease still on my hands, burn marks up my forearms from the grill. My shift at the diner dragged on tonight. Fucking everything dragged on tonight.
I sit forward and roll the joint with steady fingers. The process is now automatic: grind, pack, twist, lick, seal, and light.
I inhale slowly and deeply, letting the smoke billow into my lungs until it stings. I hold it there, chasing that burn, then exhale toward the ceiling and watch it curl and fade in the dim light.
Getting stoned isn’t solely about fun.
It’s all about survival.
If I am high enough, I can sleep through the cold instead of waking every hour with my teeth chattering and my fingers numb.
If I am high enough, my mind quiets down enough for me to shut my eyes without replaying every mistake, every fuck-up I’ve made, every look on someone’s face when they realize I am exactly what they thought I was.
Plus, if I get high enough tonight, that voice in my head will stop circling with the same shit.
Aubrey shutting me down at work. Or that expression on Lola’s face in that hospital room. The way something in me snapped tight and pulled back when I saw her standing there beside that bed.
I draw in another breath of smoke and hold it heavy in my chest.
Aubrey’s voice keeps echoing in my mind.
“She doesn’t want to talk to you. So take a fucking hint.”
It wasn’t loud, nor did it need to be. She delivered it calmly and clipped, afterward turning on her heel and walking back out to the floor, dismissing me as if I were nothing more than a fly she couldn’t be bothered swatting away.
Most people treat me that way.
I earned that reputation myself. I don’t pretend to be anything different than what I am. People recognize that and assume they already know how it ends.
It’s a fucked-up system, though.
No one ever gave me the time of day when I was thirteen and still trying to figure out who I was supposed to be. No one ever waited long enough to see if there was anything else beneath the surface. So I stopped offering it. I stopped trying. I became exactly what they expected.
If you’re going to treat me like I’m disposable, so be it. I’ll act disposable. Fuck you and your opinions.
But even as that thought burns fiercely in my chest, something else keeps bothering me.
I should have pushed it.
I should have stepped in front of Aubrey before she walked away. I should have told her about the hospital, Lola’s dad, the machines, and the word coma hanging in the air.
I should have made her see that this isn’t drama. That this isn’t me chasing something shiny. This is fucking real.
Lola shouldn’t be carrying all of this alone. And if I’m honest with myself, she deserves more support because I’m terrified I might fuck it up.
I take another drag, let my head fall back, and stare at the crack in the ceiling. I have stared at that crack for so many nights I could trace it blind.
The trailer creaks as the wind shifts outside. Metal siding rattles faintly. Something loose near the roof knocks once, twice, then settles. The cold seeps in through the thin walls and crawls over my skin.
I take another drag, followed by another slow exhale.
The smoke is still halfway in my lungs when it happens. A loud bang on the trailer door, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I freeze, caught mid-inhale as my body locks up. Every muscle tightens before my brain even registers what the hell that sound was.
I sit there stiff on the sagging couch, eyes glued to the door, the joint burning between my fingers as my mind races to keep up with my nerves.
It’s probably my cunt of an aunt. She never needs a reason to knock on the door.
It could be noon with the sun high and the neighbors mowing their lawns, or two in the morning with frost biting the grass and the street silent.
It doesn’t matter. If she desires the urge to remind me where I stand, she will march across that manicured yard in her expensive slippers and pound her fist against this flimsy door until it opens.
She likes the performance of it. The reminder. The power.
The bad blood she is forced to tolerate because cutting me off completely would appear ugly on paper.
“Fuck off,” I shout toward the door, not bothering to get up from the couch. My voice bounces off the thin metal walls and comes back sharper.
I am not rushing to my feet to open that door for another lecture about how I am destroying her life by existing. I am not apologizing for breathing too loudly, or taking up space she never wanted to give me in the first place.
I hear my name.
“Jace.”
It’s her. Bells.
Not loud. Not demanding. Simply her voice saying my name, and it slips through the metal right into my chest. Everything inside me goes silent. The irritation, the fight, the instinct to snap back. It all quiets in an instant.
I place the joint on top of the crushed Coke can I use as an ashtray, and move before I realize what I’m doing. Two strides across the tight space, I reach the door. For a moment, my hand hovers over the handle, fingers curled around the metal, but I don’t turn it yet.
Stupid thoughts burst through my mind all at once. Her dad. What if she’s about to say that her dad is gone? What if I open this door and the world has shifted on its axis for her.
I push it open and the night air rushes in as Lola stands in the dark.
The dim light spilling from inside silhouettes her in soft gold against the black yard behind her.
She appears small in it. Her arms are wrapped tightly around herself, shoulders hunched forward as if she’s trying to fold in and disappear.
Her jacket is too thin for such a cold night.
She’s trembling. Her eyes are red, and tear tracks run down her cheeks, that she never bothered to wipe away.
Something has happened.
“Bells,” I say, my voice already softer. “What the fuck.”
She doesn’t answer, she simply looks at me, and that look is enough.
I step back without thinking.
“Come in.”
She slips past me into the trailer, brushing my arm as she moves.
When I close the door and turn around, she is standing nearby, taking everything in.
The old trailer looks like it always does—old and rundown.
The overhead light flickers occasionally before settling into a weak yellow glow that reveals the cracks in the ceiling and the faint water stain spreading in one corner.
An upside-down crate acts as a coffee table, with an empty Coke can on top holding ashes and a half-finished joint still smoldering.
The kitchenette runs along one wall, with cabinets that have peeling white paint. The bed in the corner is narrow, with dark sheets, one pillow, and three blankets because the nights get colder than I ever admit.
It’s not much. It’s never been much.
I see it then.
The reality of this place through her eyes—the raw truth of how I live. I hate that she sees it. I hate that she knows this is my normal.
I shove my hands into my pockets.
“It’s not…” I start, before pausing.
What the hell am I going to say? It’s not that bad. It’s temporary. It builds character. It is what it is.
But something else comes out instead.
“What are you doing here, Bells?” I ask. “It’s after midnight.”
It happens automatically—the instinct to push first before I get pushed, to create space before someone can step too close and see something I don’t want exposed.
She flinches. It’s small, almost nothing, but I notice it—the way her shoulders tense. Then her face crumples.
“Everything is fucked,” she says, her voice breaking on the last word.
That is all it takes. The defensiveness dies immediately. I move toward her without thinking, closing the gap and pulling her into me before my brain can argue against it.
She presses against my chest. The sob that escapes her this time is raw and fierce. It gouges through her like claws. Her entire body trembles from it.
I wrap my arms around her and hold on tightly.
“Hey,” I murmur, my voice lower and rougher in a different way. “Talk to me.”
She tries. I sense her inhale sharply, struggling to find words through her sobs. Her forehead presses more firmly against me as if she’s bracing herself.
“I can’t,” she whispers. “I can’t sit in that house.”
I instinctively tighten my arms around her.
“You don’t have to,” I say.
She shakes her head against me.
“It’s just so... quiet. And I keep thinking that if my phone rings—” her voice cracks again. “If it rings, that’s it.”
I close my eyes briefly.
“He’s still the same?” I ask softly.
She nods once against my chest.
“And I keep thinking that one call,” she says, voice trembling, “one fucking call and everything I know is gone.” Her breath stutters hard. “I can’t be there waiting for that.”
I gently rest my chin on the top of her head.
“You’re not alone in this,” I tell her.
“I feel alone,” she admits. “I haven’t responded to Sam or Aubrey’s texts. I don’t even know how or what to say to them.”
Her confession weighs heavily between us.