Chapter 7
ELLIOT
The sound of shuffling footsteps and dragging wheels pulled me from the waking nightmare looping in my head. Something thunked heavily on the stairs—once, twice—followed by hushed voices too low to make out. The tone, though, said enough. Something bad was happening.
Panic slid ice-cold down my spine, coiling tight as my pulse spiked. My throat closed around a breath I hadn’t taken. I pushed myself upright, hair damp against my neck, heart thudding like it wanted to beat its way out of my chest.
It was six a.m. The house was still cloaked in shadows. I didn’t think—I just moved. Barefoot, barely dressed in the jeans I’d fallen asleep in, half-alive, I drifted down the stairs like a ghost chasing a past it could never hold.
At the bottom of the stairs, I saw them. Anthony with his shoulders hunched like he’d been carrying the weight of someone else’s choice. Facing my dad.
The man who had once lifted me onto his shoulders to see the fireworks, who tucked me in after nightmares and told me I was brave. Now, he just stood there—impassive, unmoving—as Anthony’s hands carved frantic shapes into the air between them, like he could argue something back into place.
And then… he turned away. Took the handle of his rolling case and walked toward the front door. No final words. No glance over his shoulder. No hesitation.
He wouldn’t leave me too.
Would he?
But my feet were already flying, sliding across the floor as my lungs tried to rip free from my ribs.
“Dad!” My voice cracked as I hit the hardwood floor too fast, feet skidding out from under me.
I fell hard, pain shooting up my wrist and knees, but I didn’t care.
I clawed forward like I could still reach him.
Arms wrapped tightly around my waist not to stop me, but to keep me from falling apart in his hands. I twisted like I was drowning anyway, panic overriding sense, fear louder than reason.
“Get off me!” I screamed, thrashing. One of my kicks caught the back of Anthony’s knee, buckling him. His grip loosened, and I bolted for the open door. Behind me, I heard his footsteps slam into motion—fast, panicked—as they chased me.
My father was shoving his suitcase into the back of his sedan. The rising sun made his profile glow like something celestial. He was already halfway gone.
“Dad!” I stumbled barefoot onto the damp lawn, cold dew soaking my skin. “Dad, please!”
He paused. Just for a second. The twitch in his jaw was the only indication he’d heard me. But he didn’t look at me.
“Look at me!” My voice broke, raw and shrill. “Please… I’m begging you. Don’t go.”
His hand tightened around the door handle. He didn’t blink. Didn’t falter. His face was as unreadable as stone. “I have to,” he said, as if it was a confession to a priest. Final. Lifeless. The car door slammed shut with a hollow echo that knocked the breath from my chest.
“Would you stay even if I begged?” I rasped, reaching for him like a child trying to catch sunlight between trembling fingers. “Please… please… we can help each other. I still need you. I—”
Tears streamed down my face, dripping from my chin, soaking the collar of my shirt. I didn’t even bother wiping them away.
My dad blinked at me once. Then twice. And then… he drove away. He didn’t look back. Did I mean that little to him?
The scream that tore from me was primal. A sound I didn’t recognize. It broke something inside. Something lost and desperate and wounded beyond repair.
My knees gave out. I collapsed onto the road, gravel biting into my skin. Cold sank into me, fingers and toes numb, and still I stayed there. Maybe if I stayed long enough, he’d turn around. Maybe if I bled out the grief right here on the street, he’d feel it in his chest and come back.
But he didn’t.
He left me to rot in the ashes of everything our family once was.
“Elliot!”
Anthony’s voice—far away at first, then closer. Urgent. Breaking.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Couldn’t even breathe.
The sky was bleeding into pink. The world spun; the mist swallowed the horizon. Everything flickered like it didn’t want to exist.
“Elliot!”
The last thing I saw before everything went black was the road stretching out in front of me like a grave. Then there were strong arms wrapping around me just before my head cracked the asphalt.
“I’ve got you, baby boy. I’ve got you.” His voice was gravel and honey, fierce and soft all at once.
And I broke.
I almost pulled back. Almost told him to let go. Because the last person I’d reached for had just walked away — and I didn’t know if I could survive that twice.
Every scream, every sob I’d buried beneath my ribs erupted. I screamed into Anthony’s chest until my throat tore. And blood was all I could taste. I clawed at his shirt, his arms, like I wanted to tear myself out of my own skin. Like maybe if I screamed loud enough, my dad would come back.
But Anthony never let go.
He cradled me against his chest as if I was something precious and breakable, rubbing soothing circles into my spine, whispering words I couldn’t hear over the sound of my own grief.
Eventually, the screams dulled into broken sobs.
Tears into whimpers.
Only then did I feel it. The sting in my knees. The raw burn along my palms. The dull, throbbing ache in my wrist where I’d landed wrong. The cold damp of the road clung to my skin, grit embedded in places that already hurt.
I flinched without meaning to.
Anthony stilled. “You’re hurt,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at me. His thumb brushed gently over my scraped knuckles, then down to my knees where blood had already dried in dark streaks. “Jesus, Elliot…”
He cupped my face carefully, like I might fracture. “Does anything feel broken?”
He carried me inside as if I weighed nothing. Like I wasn’t a dead star collapsing under my own gravity. My fingers were still curled into his shirt as he laid me on the couch.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, brushing damp hair from my forehead. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
He knelt beside me, used the sleeve of his hoodie to wipe the tear tracks and dirt from my face. He whispered my name like it was a vow, like it meant something holy.
I didn’t speak. I was too tired. Too empty.
He helped me out of my ruined jeans and pulled a pair of soft sweats over my feet, tenderly like I was made of glass. Then he stilled.
“Your knees,” he murmured.
I followed his gaze. The skin was raw, red, streaked with dried blood where I’d gone down on the road. I hadn’t even felt it.
He disappeared for a moment and came back with a cloth, kneeling in front of me like it mattered. Like I mattered. He cleaned the scrapes gently, careful not to press too hard, his touch steady and sure.
I watched him like I didn’t understand what I was seeing.
Not the care but the intention behind it.
Once he was done, he threw the cloth on the table and hesitated again, glanced at my damp shirt, and quietly tugged his hoodie over my head instead.
I didn't have the strength to help him. I just let him move me.
When I finally slumped against him on the couch, I broke again. “Why did he leave me, too?” My voice was hoarse, barely audible. “I’m all alone now.”
Anthony’s arms tightened around me like a vise. “You’re not alone,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “You have me. I’m not going anywhere. Not today. Not tomorrow. For as long as you need me, I’m yours.”
The words should have felt like comfort.
Instead, they landed like something fragile I was afraid to break.
My fingers tightened in his shirt—not pulling him closer, not pushing him away, just…
holding. Caught between wanting to believe him and not trusting the world enough to let myself.
If I was easy to love, he’d stay. If I stayed quiet, I wouldn’t be too much.
And if I wasn’t too much… maybe I wouldn’t be left.
A quiet sob caught in my throat, lodged somewhere between disbelief and something that felt terrifyingly close to hope.
I buried my face in his chest, trying to memorize the scent of him—smoke, cedar and sea salt.
He was safe. Solid. Unshakable. I clung to him like a lifeline.
Like he was the last steady thing in a world that kept spinning out from under me.
And for the first time in longer than I could remember… I slept. Still broken. But not alone.
I woke up hours later, my cheek pressed to the soft cotton of Anthony’s hoodie, my head cradled on his lap. The rise and fall of his stomach beneath me was slow and even, his fingers idly combing through my hair like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
I didn’t move. Didn’t dare.
His hand stilled for a second, like maybe he’d felt the shift in my breathing, but then resumed—slow and gentle, more comforting than I had any right to deserve. I closed my eyes again, letting myself drift.
Sometime later, after drifting in and out, I surfaced again—this time spooned against his chest. His leg was tangled between mine, his arm locked around my waist like he was holding me in place.
I could feel the weight of his breath against the back of my neck.
His palm pressed flat against my stomach.
Anchoring me. Calming the riot inside me.
I’d never felt so safe in my life.
The next time I woke—hours later—the room was washed in soft flickering light. My head was back in his lap, one arm curled under me, the other gripping the edge of his hoodie. The drawstring tassel was in my mouth—I must’ve started chewing it in my sleep.
Anthony was sitting perfectly still, like he’d been there for a long time. The TV was playing something muted—some old movie I didn’t recognize. But he wasn’t watching it. His gaze was fixed on me. Soft. Quiet. Almost unreadable.
“Hey,” I whispered, my voice rough with sleep.
His lips twitched. “Hey.”