9. Chase
Chase
She didn’t come back last night, and I can’t decide which is more unsettling—Summer being fifty yards away in a house with a man I now know to be a monster, or the fact that we haven’t spoken since yesterday morning.
Whichever it is, it’s driving me insane.
As much as I’d like to, I can’t stomp over there and demand she speak to me. I don’t want to risk her father opening the door. I’d hate to be the reason she ever got in trouble.
I open our text thread for the hundredth time, itching to say something.
I just want to talk to her.
To know she’s okay.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. I start to type something, then delete it, then start again. Delete. I hate how we left things yesterday. I hate that she went back inside that house. I hate that I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone.
I hate that I’m keeping that promise.
Her voice plays on a constant loop in my head.
I’ve lost count.
I’ll be fine, Chase. He won’t touch me.
I wish I could believe her.
I knew something was wrong.
Deep down, I’d known for months.
The way she flinches at loud noises or jerks away if anyone touches her.
Her dad was away on a camping trip with her uncle during winter.
All she did was play music while he was gone.
Piano and guitar, writing and singing her own songs.
No matter how many times I invited her to the beach, she refused.
She was too busy living and breathing music.
I’d never seen her so happy.
Then her dad came home and everything shifted.
I didn’t put it together until I saw the mark on her collarbone. And now I can’t stop thinking about what has happened behind those walls while I’ve been completely oblivious. What else has she hidden?
How didn’t I see it?
How many times have we hung out while she’s been masking her bruises?
Am I supposed to go through the motions like nothing has happened? Like I didn’t just find out that my best friend—the girl I love—is hurting?
To make matters worse, I overheard Mom and Dad arguing before they left for Mom’s doctor’s appointment this morning. Their voices carried up the stairs. I heard something about missing this month’s mortgage payment.
Dad said he’d figure it out.
Mom asked how.
I put on my headphones to drown out the rest.
With a grunt, I lock my screen and toss my phone onto my bed. I traipse downstairs, grab the TV remote, and flop onto the couch. I’m sprawled out like a dead fish, halfway through a mind-numbing show when I hear the front door open. Mom’s and Dad’s muffled voices drift through the entryway.
They’re back from her doctor’s appointment.
I jackknife into a sitting position, expecting them to come find me, but they’ve gone quiet.
Too quiet.
I swing my legs off the sofa and pad into the kitchen. Dad’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, jaw tight. Mom’s sitting at the table, staring blankly ahead.
Neither acknowledges me when I walk in.
“Hey,” I say, my tone careful. “How’d it go?”
Dad clears his throat and Mom’s body gives way, a ripple running through her as a sob tears loose.
My gaze darts between them. I don’t sit. “What’s going on?”
“Sit down, son,” Dad says, joining Mom at the table.
Oh shit. This can’t be good.
“Mom?”
“I said sit, Chase. Please,” Dad repeats, his voice steady.
Dad moves at the same time I do, except he crosses my path to stand behind Mom, his hands clamped onto her shoulders. I watch his thumb work soothing circles over her shoulder blades.
Mom finally looks up and when she does, my stomach drops. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. The skin around her nose is pink and irritated, obvious she’s been wiping with tissues.
When Mom doesn’t speak, Dad leans forward. “The results came back.”
Pressure builds behind my eyes. “It’s bad … isn’t it?”
“It’s a tumor, honey,” Mom says, broken. “In my brain.”
My body temperature plummets.
“What?” My mouth trembles. “No. That’s not—no. It can be fixed, right? There’s surgery? Chemo? They can fix it.”
“Son,” Dad interjects calmly. “It’s inoperable.”
I stare at them. Mom brings a shaky hand to cover Dad’s.
“It’s slow progressing,” she says. “There isn’t a cure, honey. Because of where it is, they can’t operate. And chemo won’t work.”
This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.
“No.” The chair screeches across the floor as I lunge back. “You have to try.” I look at Dad. “You have to try. You have to fix it. Tell her, Dad—”
He lifts a hand to settle me. “Chase, please. You need to take a deep breath.”
I can’t. I try but my lungs won’t work. I can’t breathe.
Mom crosses the space between us and wraps me in her arms. I collapse against her, gripping the back of her blouse like I’m five years old again.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” she whispers into my hair. “I’m so sorry.”
I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m just making this worse.
I’m not sure how long we hold each other, but eventually my tears subside and my body slumps against hers.
When I pull away, my throat feels raw and her shirt is tearstained at the shoulder.
She cups my face. “My boy.”
“How long?” I hear myself ask.
She swallows. “They don’t know exactly, but it could be years. The specialist said maybe even ten, with the right treatments.” Her smile is small. “There are some things that can slow it down and buy us time.”
Buy time.
I drop into the chair again, shoulders slumped. “Where do we go from here?”
She pushes my hair back and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “We make every minute count.”