Chapter 1
I pull the sweatshirt over my head, smoothing out the soft fabric and turning to look at myself in the mirror.
I fix a wayward curl that’s sticking out and nod to myself, feeling satisfied with how I look for tonight.
It’s Grant’s birthday party. Well, I don’t know if you could call it a party really. More of a shitshow.
Grant Caldwell is one of my best friends, and I love him, but this ritual he’s had the past few years is… odd.
His birthday is actually over the summer, but he always waits until the school year starts before having a party. He invites a fuckton of people over to his house—well, his uncle’s house, but he lived there too before he became a boarder at school—and he lets them do whatever they want.
And I mean that. The place ends up getting trashed, and he never seems to care. In fact, I think that might be his goal. He just sits in a chair the whole time and watches everyone destroy shit while he gets drunk.
So, as his best friend, I have to back my boy, no matter how insane things may seem. Which is also why I’ve kept my mouth shut about this weird obsession he has with the new kid, Landon. Even though Grant won’t admit it to himself.
Whatever. It’s my senior year, so I’m going to make the best of it and start by having a good time tonight.
Because something needs to change. It’s a few weeks into the school year and it’s felt wrong the whole time.
I thought it would be different.
I thought… well, that doesn’t really matter, does it? Whatever I thought got fucking destroyed into nothing, so I have to move on.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and open up Instagram. A lot of people are already at the party and are posting it all online.
I scroll through everyone’s stories. But I’m not really looking at the people taking them, I’m looking around them. At everyone in the background.
Trying to find any clues. Catch a glimpse.
I heard he might be there. Everyone was saying ugly fucking shit about it. Lewd, disgusting shit about it. It twisted my gut. It felt gross.
But, are they really wrong?
I saw what happened… unfortunately. He deserves what they’re saying.
And just like that, my mood morphs into that familiar feeling of anger. It bubbles in my gut. My hand squeezes my phone until my knuckles are white. I’m staring as the stories keep playing, but I’m not really seeing anything—only red.
My bedroom door whips open behind me. “?Mijito! Look at you. So handsome.”
I quickly shove my phone back in my pocket as I spin toward her. “Ma. You have to knock first. We talked about this.”
She tsks while shaking her head, making her dark curls bounce around her face. “Why?” She gasps while assessing me through the disgust now contorting her face. “Are you looking at the pornography? ?Qué asco, Javier!”
I roll my eyes and sigh as I grab my wallet from my dresser and tuck it into my back pocket. “No, Ma.”
“Okay, good. You’ll send me into an early grave.”
I chuckle. “Alright. I get it. I’m about to go to Grant’s. So, I’ll see you later.”
She nods, her lips drawing into a thin line. “Yes… about that…”
I groan, and the tiniest bit of apprehension creeps into my stomach. Because I’m sure nothing she’s about to say will make me feel good. “What?”
“Scott would like to talk to you before you leave, papi.”
I inwardly scream but attempt to school my features. I’m pretty sure my mom already knows how I feel, but it doesn’t stop the question that plagues me to mercilessly beat against the inside of my lips.
Why the fuck are you still with that asshole?
Scott Whitley is my stepdad. I’ve never met my biological dad. So I guess for all intents and purposes, Scott is my dad.
My mom had me in Puerto Rico when she was seventeen, and according to her, a few years later, in flew Scott. Her prince charming… at the time.
He was in PR for a few months on some case for his law firm, and he was instantly infatuated with my mom. According to her, he was sweet. He was kind. He was loving and attentive.
When the time came for him to have to go back, he begged her to marry him and come back to the States with him.
My mom loved PR. She loved her family. But, she fell in love with him. So she gave it all up and left with me in tow.
I was only four years old when we moved, and I always assumed he would adopt me and I’d change my last name to his—Javier Whitely—but he never did. So I still have my mom’s maiden name, Morales. And now, I thank god for that.
I don’t remember much about Scott from the early days. He was there, but we didn’t interact too much. I vaguely remember him buying me presents when we still lived in PR. I can’t really recall anything bad. Not until the shift started happening after we moved.
He started losing his patience more easily.
Snide comments slipped from his lips more frequently.
He started drinking a lot and gave us more and more glimpses of his anger.
Everything devolved little by little, until one day, I realized I had been walking on eggshells for as long as I could remember—trying to make sure I kept Scott in a good mood so we could all have a happy day.
He still has some good moments. Pockets of time where we can see the man he used to be, or the man he pretended to be. I’m not sure which it actually was.
The problem is, we never really know when we’ll get that guy, or how long he’ll stay around before the depressed, angry asshole takes back over, so it’s a constant state of dread and anticipation whenever he’s home.
I put a smile on my face for her. Only for her, because all I feel is anxiety inside. “Okay. I’ll talk to him before I go. I love you.”
There’s sadness glinting in her eyes as she nods, but she tries to smile through it. Just like me.
She kisses me on the cheek and leaves the room, probably heading back downstairs to where he waits for me.
I take a long, deep breath and one last look in the mirror before following after her.
There’s one sure-fire way to tell what kind of interaction you’ll have with Scott. And when I reach the bottom of the grand staircase and see the beer can resting on the end table next to his leather sofa-chair, I know how this one will go.
His eyes snap to me.
It’s that gaze. The one that looks like he wishes he could hit me. Or that I was dead.
It’s bleak. Sucking all the good feelings out of the room.
Scott has never put his hands on either of us. I guess we’re supposed to be thankful for that. He’s brought it up enough times when he and my mom fight.
Fucking thank you for not hitting us, Scott. You only try to drag us down in every other possible way. But at least we don’t have bruises.
“Where are you going?” he says, his voice devoid of any good emotion.
His suit is still on. Rumpled and loosened from his day working on whatever case his firm has taken on right now. His hair, much grayer than my mom’s, is wild, like he’s been pulling at it.
He takes a long pull from his beer can, not breaking eye contact.
I flick my eyes at Mom for a brief second. She stares intently at the floor while sitting ramrod straight on the adjacent couch, her leg bouncing, shaking the floral pattern of her dress.
Scott snaps his fingers at me. “Don’t look at her. Look at me. I asked where you were going.”
“Grant’s house.”
I try to keep my answers short and succinct. No attitude. But he’ll find something wrong with it anyway.
“You have your first game coming up soon. You shouldn’t be out partying and slacking. Your performance last season was less than ideal. Do you think you can just breeze through this season? You have to actually put in the work.”
Scott was a big football star in high school. Not enough to play in college or professionally, but that’s still enough of a credential for him to criticize my game at every opportunity.
I try my best to stop it, but my lips harden on their own. Like some part of my body has to react to his bullshit.
He’s instantly on his feet, his face twisted with rage while he points a finger in my direction. “You can smirk all you fucking want, Javier, but I know what the hell I’m talking about.”
My mom interjects using that sickly sweet voice she puts on to try to placate him. “Scott, Javier hasn’t gone to a party since last school year. It’s just because it’s Grant’s birthday. Right, papi?” She turns and looks at me with a smile on her face.
Scott lets out a deep sigh as he looks at the ceiling. “Natalia, Jesus Christ, I didn’t ask you. I don’t need you to speak for him. He’s got to grow up at some point. You coddle him too much.”
She smiles again, turning back toward Scott. “I understand you were speaking to him, I was just trying to—”
He cuts her off. “Okay, so if you fucking understand then why are you trying to fucking butt in?”
I take a step toward him as anger surges in my veins. “Hey—”
My mom’s face stops me, pinning me with wide eyes and a barely visible shake of her head.
“What?” Scott snarls looking between us. “Oh, I get it. Now everyone is against me. I’m so fucking terrible. All I do is go to work and pay for this house and that damn private school you go to. But fuck me, right? I’m too mean.”
I push my tongue against my teeth. Just to give myself something to do. Pressing harder and harder until I feel a little sharp sting of pain, and then the taste of copper leaks on my tastebuds.
The pain is good. It’s the slight distraction I need—drowning out his ranting, because he hasn’t stopped. He’s still fucking talking. He usually isn’t done until he’s poured all of the vile, hurtful shit out from his mouth.
I look at him but make sure I hear nothing he’s saying. Going to some other place in my head.
I come back to the present just as he finishes, then glance at my mom. Tears silently stream down her face as her leg continues to shake.
“Understood?” he barks.
I nod and turn to go to my room. I’m not sure if that’s what he said to do, but that’s usually how these things end.
Quietly closing the door behind me, I try to ignore the feeling in my chest. The one that feels like I’m suffocating. The aftermath of his explosions. It’s like a terrible, thick, sticky dread that coats my insides.
My breaths start coming out in shallow pants. Shit. It feels worse than usual.
My hands start to tingle and my legs feel weak.
Shit. Shit.
Am I having a fucking heart attack? Because it feels like I’m about to die.
And even though I hate it, I think of the thing that always calms me. The thing that pulls me out of the panic.
Purple hair. Glittery eyes. Bright nails. Strawberries.
I feel the ebb of the dread. It leaks out of my pores until I’m somewhat normal again. Normal, but angry.
Angry and in this shitty house without the support of the one person who used to make it better.
But that’s not my fucking fault. It’s his. Declan’s.
He gave it up. He did that to us.
I shake my head. Can’t get into that right now.
I allow myself a few more deep breaths before getting off the floor. Creeping over to the window, I gently slide it open and step out into the night.
Scott will be passed out in his chair soon, filling the house with loud snoring. I’ve done this a thousand times, and I’ve never been caught.
Besides, if what I hear is true, and he is going to be there tonight, there’s no way I can pass that up.