7. Summer
Summer
Twisting the lock, I collapse back against the door and steady my breathing. My hand drifts to my bruise, tracing the edge.
Tilting my head against the aged redwood, I murmur a silent prayer, wishing that things were different. That it wasn’t my mom who got sick. That it was my dad who was taken instead.
I clamp my eyes shut. First Zac and now … Damn it.
I’m not foolish enough to think Chase believes that I bumped myself. He knows.
I think he’s always known. I’ve noticed the way his brows crease whenever he sees a mark on my wrist or my shin, to which I always adjust my sleeve or pull up my sock.
My father has gotten more careless over time, and his lashings have become harder to hide.
I sneak into the kitchen to fill a glass from the tap. The moment I look up, I gasp at the reflection in the darkened window. The glass slips from my fingers and shatters.
Spinning around, I clutch my hand to my chest. “I didn’t see you there. You scared me.”
Dad’s seated at the small dining table crowded against the kitchen wall, his fingers wrapped around a tumbler of deep amber liquid. A crucifix watches from the wall above him, indifferent to his cruelty.
He takes me in slowly. His nose scrunches.
“Where have you been?” he slurs.
I look toward the fridge and notice an open bottle of bourbon on the counter beside it. Half empty. As always.
“I was at Addie’s. I told you that.”
“You’re lying. I know you’ve been up to something you shouldn’t have.” His eyes are menacing. “You look like you’ve been out whoring,” he spits.
“I’m not lying.”
He smashes his other clenched fist against the table. “LIAR!”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“Someone from church showed me something interesting today.” He sniffs sharply. “When were you planning to tell me that you’re putting videos of yourself on the internet?”
My stomach braids itself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Lie.
“Don’t test me, girl!” he booms and I jolt.
Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs, he points an accusatory finger at me.
“You take those fucking things down now. You’re a damn embarrassment.
I won’t have any daughter of mine putting that shit online.
I told you, you’re not pursuing that bullshit career.
It’ll go nowhere. You’ll stay here with me, you ungrateful little shit. ”
My voice wavers. “I’m just singing, Dad. I—”
“I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT!”
My chest rises and falls in rapid succession. I nod once in response.
“Good,” he scoffs. “You really do look like a little slut.”
I flinch at his words but don’t rise to meet him. I’ve learned it’s easiest if I don’t.
He grunts as he stands on wobbly legs, one hand on the table to keep him steady, the other resting on his beer belly. He gives me another once-over, nodding toward the broken glass. “Why did you do that?”
“I didn’t mean to do anything. It slipped from my hand.”
He points a threatening finger at me. “Don’t talk back to me. Remember whose roof you’re under. Got it?”
When I don’t answer, he advances two steps. “Got it?”
“Yes, I’ve got it,” I reply.
He lifts his brows expectantly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir,” he mocks, gesturing to the floor. “I taught you to be more careful than that.”
I stay still. “It was an accident.”
He moves faster than I expect. In a flash, one grubby hand fists the front of my dress, the other grips my hair. I wince. He’s going to hit you. He’s going to hit you.
“I promise! I didn’t mean to—”
“You just enjoy breaking my things, is that it?” The foul smell of bourbon hits me like a slap to the face. It’s always the bourbon.
“No.” Tears bite at my eyes, but I won’t cry in front of him. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
His laugh is hollow. “Fucking useless. Just like your mother.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood.
His hold in my hair tightens, twisting and pulling at the roots. His face inches closer. “Do you think I don’t know what women get up to when they dress like this? Who were you out trying to impress, huh?”
“No one,” I whisper.
“That boy next door, isn’t it?” He releases my dress and grabs at my jaw, forcing my head up. “Isn’t it?!”
“No.”
“TELL ME THE TRUTH!” he roars. Without warning, he shoves me backward.
I crash into the counter’s edge and one ankle buckles; I lose my balance in Addie’s heels.
Pain shoots through my body as I crumple to the floor, crying out as the glass shards slice into my palms and forearms. A sob wracks my body.
When I look up through blurred vision, he looms over me. “Delete the fucking videos.”
“I will,” I whisper brokenly.
“Clean up your mess and get to bed.”
His heavy boots thud against the floorboards as he disappears up the staircase. I hear his bedroom door slam and finally release the pressure building behind my eyes.
My tears come in hot streaks. Glass crunches beneath me as I push onto my knees, but I barely notice. The pain inside is worse.
Useless. Just like your mother. The fissure in my heart widens.
I picture Addie’s hand holding mine and giving it three squeezes. “You’re okay,” I whisper to myself. “You’re okay.”
I begin to pick the broken fragments from my pierced skin, hissing with every pluck. Even though most of the cuts are superficial, it still stings like a bitch.
I’ll survive. I’ve been through worse.
Once I’ve dug out the glass and tossed the pieces into a small pile, I kick off the stupid shoes, stagger to the laundry for a broom and dust pan, and clean up the splintered glass.
Next, I retrieve the first aid kit from under the sink, wiping the dribbles of blood oozing from the cuts.
Then I tiptoe upstairs, disappearing into my bedroom.
My hands tremble as I reach behind my back and rip open the zipper. The moment the fabric loosens around my ribs, I exhale hard.
I change into a long-sleeve tee, taking extra care as I slip my arms through the sleeves.
The cuts burn but they’ve stopped bleeding.
For now, at least. I tug on my pajama shorts and pad to the window, easing it open.
Fresh air flutters in, kissing my tear-stained cheeks, and my exposed skin prickles.
I shuffle over to my bed, lowering to my knees and reaching for the shoebox hidden underneath.
Flipping the lid off, I rummage through my birth certificate and Social Security card, grabbing the wad of cash.
Everything I need to start fresh. I start counting.
The diner pays peanuts, but it’s the only place that’s open late within riding distance from home.
One thousand two hundred in cash, so I don’t leave any records of where I’ve gone.
It’s a decent start, but it’s not enough to cover a one-way ticket, deposit on a rental, emergency funds, groceries, and bills. I don’t own a car yet; I’ve only gotten my bike. I’ll need time to find a stable job. “Goddamn it,” I groan, tossing the wad back in the box and stashing it away.
The plan is simple. Save four thousand dollars.
Buy a one-way ticket to anywhere. Find a room in a share house—maybe two other female roommates—while I get on my feet.
I’ve been researching the music scene in Nashville for months.
They have plenty of open mics, session work, and studios that work with new talent.
It’s not a guarantee. But it’s a chance, which is more than I have here.
The most important part isn’t the money or the ticket or even the city.
It’s leaving without him knowing.
If my father finds out I’m planning to go, he’ll make sure I can’t. He’ll take my savings. He’ll hide my documents. He’ll find a way to keep me exactly where he wants me—cooking his meals, cleaning his house, and tending the garden while he drinks away whatever’s left of his conscience.
I can’t risk him stopping me. I need to save enough to be on a plane before he realizes I’m gone.
I just need some more time.
Six months, maybe less if I pick up extra shifts.
I just need everything to stay as it is until then.
I climb into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. Everything aches. My arms, my hips, my feet—thanks to the stupid heels.
Just go to sleep, Summer. Tomorrow is a new day.
I carefully roll onto my side, trying not to re-open the cuts on my arms, curling into a ball. If I make myself small enough, maybe I will disappear. My body won’t stop shaking. My eyes hover back and forth between the clock on my bedside and my door.
Blowing out a sigh, I throw off the comforter and pad to my window—the one that gives me a view of Chase’s. The faint glow of his lamp illuminates the edges of his curtains.
He’s still awake.
Of course he is.
Maybe I could—
No. He saw the bruise on your collarbone. You can’t go over there.
Go back to bed. If Chase sees these cuts, he’ll never let it go.
This is evidence.
Go. Back. To. Bed.
But my bed is cold and the faint scent of bourbon clings to my nostrils.
Chase’s bed is always warm and smells like fresh laundry detergent and him. His mattress is soft and his arms are safe.
You can’t keep using him as an escape. He won’t be here forever.
I hate that I need anyone. I was getting by just fine without him, taking my broken pieces and shoving them away somewhere so deep, no one could find them.
I hate that after years of managing this on my own, Chase waltzes into my life with his easy smile and kind words and his window that’s always open, and suddenly there was no room to hide my shattered remnants.
Now I know what it’s like to be held and be seen and fall asleep without fear of what the next morning will bring.
Surrendering to the war raging inside me, I slip on my worn Converse and ease the window open as silently as possible.
Climbing out, I dangle both legs over the tiled ledge, gathering my hair over one shoulder. Then, with both hands, I twist and lower myself down until I’m hanging by my fingertips. My arms scream in protest before I finally let go. My feet hit the grass with a dull thud.
I cross the yard to Chase’s house and find the lattice beneath his window. It groans a little under my weight as I climb, cuts pulling, but it holds.
When I reach the top, I pause to peek through the gap in his curtains. I can see him sprawled on his bed, headphones in, his pen and open journal discarded on his bedside, tossing a football toward the ceiling and catching it. Over and over.
He looks so … normal. Like he doesn’t have a single worry in the world.
I almost don’t want to ruin it. The urge to turn around and go back sweeps through me. I look over my shoulder toward my house and consider it.
Maybe I should. I never sneak into his room like this—when I’m in this state.
“Hayes.”
His voice jolts me. My eyes drift shut as I drag in a breath.
I turn back to find him sitting on the edge of his bed, his headphones slung around his neck. He reaches to flip his journal shut, then his brows pinch together as he reads my expression.
He nods in understanding, as if he knows what I’m trying to say. I need you.
He doesn’t hesitate, peeling the covers back and scooting over to make room. “Come here.”
I hoist myself through, kick off my sneakers, and crawl in beside him.
He never touches me, but I can hear the steady thump of his heart and it soothes me.
I remember the first time we did this.
It happened randomly one night. I had been lying awake for hours, trying everything I could to fall asleep. Counting sheep, meditation apps, breathing exercises. You name it. Then my dad stumbled home, crashing through the front door and slurring curses. He’d been out drinking with my uncle. Again.
He marched up to my room and threw open the door.
I pretended to be asleep, but he didn’t care this time.
He marched in, yanked off the sheets, and tossed me onto the floor.
He blamed Mom’s death on me. Just when I thought a person couldn’t be any crueler, he blamed me for her cancer.
He told me she was too distracted with me to look after herself properly.
That if it wasn’t for me, she would’ve noticed the signs sooner and seen a doctor.
That she would still be here if they’d never had me.
He held firm until his nails bit deep, leaving crimson crescent moons and bruises.
What scared me the most wasn’t the physical pain. It was what came after. The quiet that followed his yelling. The possessed look in his eyes that told me he carried something dark—something evil inside him.
“The devil is inside you,” he’d say.
I couldn’t stand the thought of being in that house alone with him another second.
I remembered that Chase slept with his window ajar.
I noticed when I came home late from the diner one night.
So, I snuck out, tossed a rock at his window, and ended up here.
When he asked what was wrong, I told him I couldn’t sleep.
I think it helps us both. He’s never told me outright that he has nightmares, but I can tell. His body twitches in his sleep. He whimpers. Moans. Once, he even cried. Like, real tears. I woke to his body thrashing and tried to shake him awake, but I couldn’t.
I didn’t know what else to do. So I did the only thing I could think of, which worked. I sang.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
I flip over to face him. “Yeah.”
Neither of us speak.
“What were you listening to?” I whisper.
“Bittersweet Symphony.”
I hum. “I love that song.”
He unravels the headphones, plugging one in his ear. He holds the other bud out to me and my lips curl into a grin. I lean in closer to take it.
We settle under the blankets and the soothing sound of the violin filters through the tiny speaker. My eyelids fight to stay open and before I can stop it, a yawn escapes.
Warm breath tickles my skin, and I glance up to find Chase watching me, his mouth pulled into a tired, lopsided smile.
“Get some sleep,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”
I know. He always does.