Chapter 29
Five Years Earlier
Dad is mad again.
I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, but what I do know is that it’s always my fault.
He doesn’t get mad at Jamie. He doesn’t get mad at Chase.
He doesn’t get mad at Mom. That means there’s nothing wrong with Dad; there’s something wrong with me .
I was the kid he didn’t plan for. The kid he changed his life for.
The kid he puts too much pressure on himself for.
He has become this monster because of me.
It’s one of the worst nights. I’m already numb, already somewhere else, already praying it will end soon.
Mom’s out with her friends tonight. They get together for cocktails once a month.
I can see her face through the darkness now, laughing.
I like Mom’s smile. It’s bright and contagious.
I wish she was here right now; I wish she could help me, but I also want her to keep that smile.
I think something happened at Dad’s work again.
I don’t know what, exactly. But I was studying like he would have wanted me to do.
I was finishing up my homework while he worked downstairs at the kitchen table, frantically flipping through papers and running his hands back through his hair.
I should have had the homework done before I came downstairs for a drink.
But I didn’t. I only had one question left. It would have only taken me a minute.
He’s yelling, he’s cursing, in both English and in Spanish.
His green eyes are fierce and terrifying, so I close mine.
I weigh nothing to him. I’m thrown across the kitchen, taking down one of the chairs with me, landing in a heap.
I’ve landed on my wrist. A brief, sharp pain surges up my arm.
But it’s okay. It’s not broken. The pain isn’t bad enough for that.
I’m grabbed from the floor, my body is bruised, and I am aching.
His knuckles are rock hard. I can feel them as they smash into the corner of my jaw.
He yells something at me, but I don’t register his words.
I’m wincing in agony under his tightening hold on me.
He shoves me away again. My forehead smacks against the corner of the kitchen table on my way down to the floor.
I can feel the warm dampness of blood on my skin, trickling from the fresh cut.
I reach up and touch it with my fingertips.
I still can’t open my eyes. I’m waiting for his firm hands to grab me again, for his harsh voice to scream at me.
But the only thing I hear is the sound of glass shattering. There’s some more cursing. A groan. A deep breath. Then, footsteps that for once don’t grow louder. They fade away into the hall, leaving behind the deafening slam of the kitchen door.
My breathing is out of sync, fast and ragged, and I slowly peel open my damp, wet eyes. The kitchen is a mess. Dad’s business papers are scattered all over the floor, some torn. Three chairs are knocked over onto their sides. There are shards of glass lying just in front of me.
I retreat from the glass, crawling as far away as I can until I’m pressed against the corner of the room. I hug my knees to my chest, my wrist throbbing, my forehead stinging, my bruises deepening. I’m shaking uncontrollably, and as I bury my face into my knees, I break down in tears.