Prologue #2
Before he can see any tears fall, I storm to my room, slamming the door, which he won’t love, but fuck him.
My lungs heave as if they’re collapsing.
I brace my hand against my chest and take slow breaths and then open the fucking window wide.
It’s not my first rodeo with a panic attack.
I pull in a slow lungful of crisp night air and convince my brain that I’m not actually suffocating.
The thought of living like this forever feels that way, though, and that’s what’s gonna happen if I can’t play hockey. I’ll end up like Hunter and Mom—who have shit jobs, the only kind you can get without more than a high school diploma—and I’ll be stuck grinding, wasting my life away.
Closing my eyes, I let the breeze hit my face until I calm down. I have half a mind to slip out the window and just run. But I won’t leave Dash, and as much as my brother can be an overbearing dick, I know it’s just because he wants better for me.
But it’s his version of better, not mine. How do I make him see that?
It’s been a week, and I haven’t talked to Hunter much beyond “I’m going here” and “yes, I’ll be home before dark”.
It’s not hard because he’s been working a lot.
That doesn’t mean I get out of following the rules.
He calls the house to make sure I’m home when I’m supposed to be.
At least I’ve convinced Dash to stay with us this week.
No one’s looked for him. Not even Robin.
I can tell it bothers him. Even his smiles have lingering sadness haunting them.
“Why don’t you live with your dad?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Mom and Robin say it wouldn’t be good for me. He’s a rough guy. Been to prison and stuff. Used to be in a biker gang or somethin’.”
I don’t know if any of that’s true. Even if it is, he was willing to give Dash money for hockey—his fucking dream—in a heartbeat. And whatever his dad is has to be better than his mom and Robin.
The front door thrusts open. Mom strides in.
She’s thin, so thin—skin and bones. Fine lines crease her face, even though they shouldn’t yet at her age—lack of sleep will do that to you—and her hair’s tied in a messy bun with strands flying all over the place.
I wouldn’t say that Mom has a drinking problem, but she usually stays after work for drinks with her friends.
Her sloppy movements say that’s exactly where she was today.
My heart buoys. Such a damn little kid response to seeing Mom.
I barely know Mom. But it’s not the only reaction my body has.
There’s also the prickle of hairs like spiders walking over my skin.
Dash feels something, too, sitting up tall from his place on the couch.
Kids like me and Dash can sense the knife-edge of danger in the air.
The warmth I long for isn’t there; the corners of her lips tilt into a frown, and my stomach plunges into icy coldness. “Just the guy I wanted to talk to,” she says. She fixes the sweater that’s fallen off her shoulder as she hangs her purse on the hook by the door and slips her shoes off.
Shit. I know I’m in shit for something, I just don’t know what I’ve done. A flight of electricity sizzles through my bones.
“Are you giving your brother shit?” she asks.
Oh. That. What a dick. He told on me? “I wasn’t giving anyone shit. Can we do this later?”
I gesture toward Dash, in case she hasn’t seen him, but I’m pretty sure she has and doesn’t give a fuck.
“This is my house. If your friend doesn’t want to see what happens here, he can leave.”
Dash shakes his head. He’s not leaving. It’s unspoken solidarity. And I appreciate it, but my cheeks still heat. No one wants to get reamed out by a parent in front of their friend, even if that friend is Dash, who’s seen it all.
“Hunter and I figured it out,” I tell Mom. At least I thought we had. Yeah, we haven’t talked, but it’s not like I went behind his back and took Dash’s dad’s money. I did what he fucking said, I just wasn’t gracious about it.
“You’re a lippy little shit, and that changes today. New rules. New privileges. You’re gonna start doing more around here so that you can appreciate what we do for you.”
This is way overboard. Was it because I haven’t talked to him? I think I deserve a little “feel sorry for myself” time. And it’s a real piss off that Mom only bothers to make time for me when it’s to tell me off.
“I do plenty around here. Maybe if you were home, you’d fucking see that.”
A hot sting blooms on my face. There was real force behind that smack. I’ve had way worse from guys on the ice, but this is different. This burrows into the core of me, deep, past skin and bone, straight into my chest. It breaks something inside.
Forever.
I don’t want to be dramatic—I fucking hate everything to do with the dramatic—but it’s so fucking painful on the inside. It feels like hate, like devastation. It’s the most desolate kind of rejection. The kind that says: I only tolerate you.
My head turns left and right, like there might be some other escape, even though I know damn well where the door is.
I almost bowl Mom over getting through it, my shoulder catching hers as I tear past. I might only be fifteen, but I’m a lot bigger than her.
There’s no plan in my head, just instinct.
Dry blades of grass cut into my bare feet, then the scrape of rough pavement grates the skin raw, but I don’t stop.
“Dirk! Dirk, wait!” Dash’s clear voice echoes across the neighborhood. I stop, and he runs toward me like a maniac. “You don’t have shoes.”
He bends over to catch his breath, having sprinted, but he’s quick to recover, handing me my flip-flops. “You crazy asshole. Here.”
Sliding into them, I look back at the house, expecting Mom, but she’s not there. The door’s shut. Why does that bring tears to my fucking eyes? Why should I care?
It’s always the same—two extremes. Hunter’s almost suffocating. Mom’s either absent or screaming at me.
Dash slings an arm around my shoulders. “C’mon. Let’s steal a few of Robin’s beers from the fridge.”
“Won’t he be pissed?”
“Nah. He’s fine with it so long as there’s enough for him after work.”
Whatever. Today, I could give a fuck where the beer comes from so long as it makes me forget about my life for a day. But there’s a reason fifteen-year-olds aren’t supposed to drink. In an hour, we’re three beers in each. The room swims, tilting up and down like a slow see-saw.
That’s when my brother saunters up to the porch.
He’s sweaty, dirt on his face from work, the tongues hang out of his steel-toed boots.
He’s already heavily muscled, but at that in-between place, on his way to something bigger, beefier.
Heads already swivel when he walks by, soon it’ll be worse, and it’s all thanks to long days of hard labor with the construction company that was willing to hire him while he was still in high school.
I begged him to let me get a job with them, too, but he won’t let me.
He's the only one who’s allowed to be a martyr for the family, apparently.
Hunter stares at me long enough to sober me some. “How drunk are you?”
“Not drunk enough. Go ‘way, Hunter. I’m not coming home tonight. No way am I comin’ home tonight.” I think I slurred that a bit.
“Oh, you’re coming home, even if I have to drag your ass home, but I’m willing to wait until you’re sober. You like pizza, Dash?” he asks my friend, pulling out his phone. “Did you two imbeciles think to eat while you got blitzed?”
No, we didn’t. I don’t answer him because it’s a rhetorical question. He swipes the beer we were in the middle of drinking so he can pour it down the sink and gets us set up with water.
“You know how to make coffee, Dash?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh my god. You don’t have to call my brother, sir. Jesus.”
Hunter smirks. “Make us some. I need to talk to this guy.” He swings a chair out, spinning it, straddling it backward. Such an imposing figure. I hope I’m half as imposing as he is someday.
“Haven’t you already told Mom everything? I’m surprised you’re botherin’ with talking to me.”
“Talking to Mom was a mistake. I was … that was before …” he trails off. “I’m sorry. She wasn’t supposed to say anything to you.”
“Yeah, well, she did, and she hates me now. It’s all your fucking fault.” Stupid tears fill my eyes. I’m on the brink because of the alcohol. Beer was supposed to make me feel better, not worse.
“Lemme see your face.” He reaches out, gripping my chin, turning it side to side until I shove him off.
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.” His posture stiffens, and his eyes go flinty, sucking a breath through his teeth. For once, I don’t think he’s pissed at me. “I think you have a little nick from her ring, but you’ll live. Probably hurts more on the inside, though.”
He needs to stop saying shit. The tears come faster, so fast I can’t wipe them away before he sees them. Wood slides across cheap linoleum. Strong hands lift me from under my arms. Instinctively, my arms wrap around Hunter.
“Why’d you have to fucking say anything to her?” I shake with silent sobs, with all the daily pain I hold in. He doesn’t scold me for swearing.
“You’re right, I’m so fucking sorry. I shouldn’t have said shit to her, okay? I won’t do it again. Now will you forgive me already?”
I shake my head into his chest, squeezing him for dear life, distantly aware that my best friend’s somewhere, watching all this go down.
“C’mon. Forgive me, and I’ll overlook your little drunk fest here,” he wheedles in a voice that says he was going to anyway.
“That’s not how forgiveness works, Hunter.” But, yeah, I forgive him. I’ll always forgive Hunter. I nod, leaning back to crane my neck and look into his concerned eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Gettin’ so mad.”
“Nah, you had a right to. But maybe take it easy on Mom? She’s not at her best.”