Chapter 8 Solana #2
“Keep the job. The kids already like you,” he says.
Then he pauses, studying my face with such curiosity that a shiver racks down my spine.
Usually, no one pays close attention like this.
No one ever studies me or notices small things about me.
But he does as he lowers his voice and asks, “Are you alright? You still seem upset. I noticed at dinner.”
I try to pull up my usual fake smile, the one I’ve been wearing like armor lately. But as soon as I give it a try, I realize it won’t work.
I won’t fool Silver. He actually sees me, actually picks up on the details like no one else in my life.
Uncle Eddie’s always too caught up in club business. The same goes for Moses. Kel only notices me when he wants his hands on me. My friends only see “blackout” now, not Solana.
But not Silver.
He’s the opposite. This man who I’ve only been around a couple times sees things everyone else misses.
I swallow against the sudden lump in my throat and admit the truth. “Things… aren’t okay. They’re not okay at all. Things are... very hard right now.”
Silver’s brow furrows and he leans even closer, ’til there’s almost no space left between us. His lips part as if he’s about to probe further, clearly concerned.
“How are the dishes coming along?” Rachel asks suddenly, strolling into the kitchen at a brisk pace. She still has her phone in hand, her energy much lighter than it’s been the entire evening.
Silver and I jerk apart like guilty teenagers. I hadn’t realized how close we’d gotten, both leaning in at the sink. I grab another plate, scrubbing furiously. He picks up the towel again.
“They’re coming,” he answers throatily. “We’re almost finished.”
“Good,” she says, oblivious to the change in our body language. “Solana, let’s talk more about your schedule so we can coordinate for next week…”
The next week passes fast when I force myself to stick to a routine that almost feels normal.
I keep my head down at school, ducking into restrooms when I spot Shay or Yvette coming down the hall.
They text me a few times—more variations of “girl where r u?” and “stop being weird lana”—but I don’t answer.
I can’t bring myself to. Not when every time I see them, I feel like they’re laughing at some joke I’m not in on.
Instead I throw myself into the things I can control. Learning my lines for the upcoming audition. Babysitting Jack at the Roberts-Kingman residence. Actually showing up to my classes and doing any assignments early for once.
Jack turns out to be a pretty sweet kid when he’s not trying to gross out his sister. It’s true he makes fart jokes and thinks burping the alphabet is peak comedy, but that’s standard ten-year-old boy stuff.
When I tell him it’s homework time, he actually listens. When I make him a snack—usually just a ham and cheese sandwich or microwave popcorn—he’s appreciative without being prompted.
Rachel’s house becomes my escape. While Jack does his math worksheets, I rehearse my lines or work on my own college assignments on my laptop.
The house is nice, nicer than anywhere I’ve ever lived. Not rich-person nice, but comfortable. Coordinated furniture that wasn’t bought from garage sales. A neutral color scheme with tasteful pops of color. Pictures on the walls in matching frames. A refrigerator that’s always full.
One afternoon while Jack’s engrossed in his video game time, I wander into the family room and stop cold. Family photos cover the walls.
I track their family through the years, stopping in front of one photo in particular that’s from about ten years ago.
Silver has his arm around Rachel, both of them smiling wide at the camera. A baby Jack is in her arms, and a much younger and freckled Tabby wears pigtails and overalls.
They looked happy. Really happy. What happened?
What makes two people go from swearing they’ll spend the rest of their lives together to barely being able to sit at the same dinner table without sniping at each other?
I don’t have the answers. But it does make me frown as I turn away and wonder if we’re all destined to be alone.
Including me. Especially me.
Other than babysitting and dragging myself to classes, I’m alone most of the time. Unc’s gone more than he’s home—“club business” his eternal excuse.
Moses finally calls from Vegas of all places. The bike show in Colorado ended days ago, but he and some friends decided to make a detour.
“Just for a couple days, Lana,” he promised, but we both know his couple days can turn into a couple weeks.
It’s evening time, and I’m sprawled on our worn couch, script in hand, mumbling Magnolia’s lines to myself when my phone buzzes with a new text.
guess who???
Before I can even process the message to make a guess, there’s an abrupt knock at the door. It’s aggressive and loud, like someone’s banged their fist on the door demanding attention.
My stomach drops. I creep to the peephole and there he is.
Kel standing on my doorstep uninvited, hands shoved in his pockets as he waits for me to answer.
Maybe if I stay quiet, he’ll leave.
My phone buzzes again.
i know ur there. heard ur footstep.
Shit.
I debate for another ten seconds before sighing and opening the door. What else can I do? Make him stand outside texting me ’til Uncle Eddie comes home?
“Hey, babe,” he says, strolling in like he’s been invited over.
He crashes onto the couch, sprawling across the cushions I just vacated. The script falls to the floor, and he doesn’t even glance at it.
“Thought I’d check on you,” he says, patting the spot next to him. “After your crash out at the movies last week.”
I remain standing, arms crossed. “It wasn’t a crash out.”
“Whatever you wanna call it. I wasn’t sure what to do at first. Shay said you probably needed space, so that’s what I gave you. You feeling better?”
I sigh and perch myself on the opposite end of the couch, as far from him as possible while still technically sitting with him.
“I’m not sure what happened,” I mumble. “I just... couldn’t stand it anymore.”
“Yeah, like I said… you crashed out pretty hard.” He chuckles as if the memory’s now funny. “But you got no reason to be embarrassed.”
“For the movies or last Saturday night?”
“Either. C’mon, don’t be like that.” He scoots closer, his body spray inundating my senses in a way that’s so intensely familiar, yet I can’t figure out why. “What did I tell you? I’ve got you, Lana.”
I’ve got you.
The words should be comforting, but they make my skin crawl. My body knows something my brain won’t tell me. Every time he touches me, every time he gets close, there’s this alarm ringing inside me that something’s deeply wrong.
Something happened that I can’t remember on a conscious level.
The bruises are gone now. The ugly purple-yellow marks finally faded.
But the feeling hasn’t. If anything, it’s worse. As if my body’s trying to protect me from something my mind won’t acknowledge.
He slides closer, his arm coming around my shoulders, pulling me against him. “I don’t wanna pressure you, babe. But I really, really like you. You know, get to know you better? If you’re into me too. Are you?”
“I...” I stammer uncomfortably. “I’m… I’m not sure.”
Anymore.
A few weeks ago, I would’ve been so happy if Kel Greene told me these words. Yet now they feel so wrong.
He grins broadly. “C’mon, Lana. You think I don’t know? Yvette told me. I know how long you’ve been feeling me.”
My stomach pits as he leans in and drops a kiss at the corner of my mouth. When I don’t pull away, he grabs my chin and angles my face better so he can kiss me fully.
His lips cover mine, his hands pushing at my shoulders to ease me further back against the couch cushions.
But it’s as my body leans back that the scene around me vanishes. A new one crashes down over me in bleary, distorted fashion.
I’m lying down. My body feels so heavy I can’t move. It’s like I’m being weighted down, so much so I can barely move my head. I turn it from the side, my fuzzy vision on the dark shadows of the room.
The window and curtains. The shape of the lamp on the end table. Then when I roll my head so it’s finally straight, I’m surprised to see I’m no longer alone.
Kel’s face floats above mine. He’s… on top of me. He’s the heavy weight anchoring me down.
Holding me down.
All while his body moves. His body crashes into mine and nausea ripples in my stomach. He’s panting as he goes faster and faster, and I feel sicker and sicker.
But I can’t stop it. I can’t do anything—
“GET OFF ME!”
I shove him hard, so hard he flies backward off the couch and tumbles to the floor. I’m on my feet, heaving desperate gasps of air into my lungs.
“GET OUT!” I scream louder than maybe I ever have in my life, shaking. “GET OUT! LEAVE!”
He scrambles up, his face twisted with anger. “You crazy bitch! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“LEAVE!”
He hesitates for half a second as if he’s considering arguing, then storms out, slamming the door as he goes. The walls and window pane rattle before an even more powerful silence follows.
I sink to the floor, my whole body quaking as the fragmented memory plays over and over again in my head.
I draw my knees up and bury my face in them, fighting for something as basic as air.
But I can’t breathe. I’ve forgotten how.
My chest squeezes tighter as if an invisible boa constrictor is clamping down and crushing my ribcage.
The room feels like it’s moving, the floor under me no longer stable. It takes me several minutes to even be able to calm down enough to realize I’ve started sobbing.
Silent sobs but they pour out of me as I fight to breathe.
For the past week and a half, I’ve been desperate to remember. But now that more memories are trickling in, I want nothing more than to pretend that Saturday doesn’t exist.
I push myself back onto my feet and stagger through the house, my legs less steady than Jell-o. The second I make it into my bedroom, I’m collapsing onto the bed, burying my face into the pillows.
I don’t know what to do or how to even handle this. I was never prepped for something like this.
How can I even move forward when things feel so fractured? When I can’t even make sense of it myself?
But deep down, I know it’s not like I hoped. I’ve always known from the moment I woke up naked Sunday morning.
I just… didn’t want to believe the truth.
A sense of hopelessness fills me up ’til it’s unbearable. I can’t handle this alone; I can’t figure this out by myself.
I need someone to talk to. Someone who can at least help me make sense of this.
My hand shakes reaching for my phone. I scroll through my contacts, vision blurry with tears. Uncle Eddie would go insane if he found out; he’s never been a great listener, always one to resort to violence like the club enforcer he is.
Moses is in Vegas being Moses. He’s my older brother and would probably have a similar reaction to Unc. He wouldn’t listen at all.
I can’t call Shay or Yvette. Not when they’ve been calling me blackout and seem to think I’m being sensitive and dramatic.
Silver’s name appears on the screen. The same man who noticed I wasn’t okay and who asked if I needed anything. The same man who came to pick me up that Sunday morning and actually sees me when everyone else looks straight through.
I press call before I can think better of it.
One ring. Two.
Please answer. Please… I need…
He answers on the third ring, already sounding concerned.
Sincere as ever.
“Solana?”
“I… I…” I warble out through my tears. “I need you.”