Chapter 29 Aria
ARIA
“Ican’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Clara says, one leg folded on top of my neatly made bed. “That idiot. I swear I could wring his neck for what he did.”
There’s a slight twitch on the side of my face as she says wring, not knowing just how close of a reality that could’ve been.
Heat creeps up my neck, flushing my cheeks as Clara’s lips curve into a knowing grin. “So, who’s the other guy?”
I blink at her, heart clinched.
Laughing, she flicks her hair back, leans forward, and snags the scrunchie from her wrist with her teeth in one smooth, practiced move.
“Come on,” she mumbles around it, twisting it into a messy knot at the top of her head.
“I totally knew there was someone else when I first mentioned Jayce to you. You had that look. So, fess up, who’s the guy? ”
My heart jumps. The discomfort of sifting through an answer quickly enough to not appear like an outright lie is overwhelming, spreading too fast to keep pace with, like trying to swim against a current with no sense of where the shore is, destined to go under before I even have the chance to fight the waves.
Her eyebrow quirks, already catching onto the shift, the distant glaze forming over my eyes. She cocks her head to the side, lips parting, but nothing comes out. Then—“Is he who you were with during…that time?”
Intuitively, I catch myself nodding before I’ve even given myself a moment to think through what I’m doing. Clara stills. Her expression is unreadable as she goes quiet, like she is piecing it all together.
There’s no point in trying to spin another lie. She’ll catch on, just like she did with the funeral story. I can’t lie again. Not to her.
It’ll only push us farther apart, the lies tangling, strings twisted and knotted so heavily that we can’t even see each other through them.
But it’s not like I can tell her the complete truth, either.
“So…” she says slowly, brows dipping, eyes narrowing as she studies me, arms crossed over her chest. “If hooking up with an older guy is what you’re worried about telling me, you don’t have to sweat it.
I get the daddy appeal of it all. Smashing Jayce’s phone after he caught him going after you? So hot.”
“Clara,” I manage, my pulse climbing as the words edge past the lump in my throat. If Jayce told her, then that means he could’ve told anybody else.
Mischief glints in her eyes, grinning like she’s uncovered my secret. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
My heartbeat soars to a dangerous limit as I jerk forward, hands twisted into the duvet as my thoughts start to circle back, catching up. “Wait, what else did Jayce tell you? You don’t think he told any of the teachers or staff anything, do you?”
She scrunches her chin. “Um, I don’t think so.”
The pressure releases from my chest as I breathe out, the points of my fingers and toes already numb from the sudden possibility of him being reported. He almost risked himself in order to help me.
“It’d bruise his ego too much to say anything, so I wouldn’t worry about it. The only reason I knew was because I wouldn’t get off his back when I saw him without you.”
I can’t believe I’m even thinking it, but thank God for that. Everything will be fine. The tension eases from my neck and spine.
She knocks her knuckles into my shoulder to get my attention again, her grin curling back into place. “So, how old is he?”
My brows pull together. “I-I’m actually not sure. I think… twenties?”
I’d never given our ages much thought beyond the first time I saw him.
Everything that followed was too chaotic, too charged with fear and panic for survival to leave room for anything else.
He didn’t seem that old to me. Though his stern features, towering height, and intimidating tattoos did highlight the difference a bit more.
She tongues her cheek, her gaze dipping for a second before she lets out a soft, amused huff, like she expected a juicier answer. “Well, either way, you have my approval. Just so you know. I never judge.”
My throat swells. Instead of attempting to say something back, I nod with a slight stretch across my face that’s supposed to resemble a smile, though I know there’s no heart behind it.
I haven’t outright lied to my best friend, but I know the truth.
She’d never be able to look at me the same if she knew who I’m covering for, or worse, that I have undeniable feelings for him.
The lines inside my sketchbook grow harder to make out as the light filtering through my window dims, casting long shadows across the page. It’s time to set down my pencil, let the night’s quiet take over, and start winding down for bed.
I’m still in my outfit from earlier, a flowy, ivory, babydoll top and fitted jeans with a butterfly embroidery stitched on one of the pockets.
Time has barely registered since Clara left.
My mind has sunk into its usual evening spiral, chasing the joy of watching scattered scribbles evolve into full-fledged rooms with layered, multidimensional designs.
Losing track of time like this isn’t unusual for me, especially on days off from the cafe.
Becca cut down my hours recently, and while I typically would’ve protested, lately I don’t mind.
My focus slips too easily behind the espresso machine anyway, so I know it was the right move.
There were only so many times I could get scolded for milk bubbling over the pitcher, burning my hands, and making a mess before something had to change.
But at home, my thoughts can drift uninterrupted all they want, although I usually fall into a pretty steady trance whenever my nose digs into my sketchpad, my worries slipping away as I vanish into a world of interior design and creation.
Nothing else matters besides what I’m pouring onto the page.
On paper, I’m free. On paper, I can finally dare to dream big.
I let out a yawn and snap my sketchbook shut, tucking the pencil into the spiral binding. Rising to my feet with a stretch, I twist side to side as my spine cracks in protest. A faint rush of relief follows, blood finally returning to my limbs after hours of being curled over in bed.
My eyes drift toward the closet as I roll my neck, still halfway stretched, searching for something more comfortable to change into, when a loud, abrupt bang echoes from the door downstairs.
My heart leaps in my throat as I snap upright, then stand frozen as a corpse, ears straining.
Another series of bangs makes me flinch.
Concerned, I reach for my phone at the foot of the bed, snatching it off the duvet before creeping out my room, hovering over the side of the railing to look at the door below.
It shudders with each blow, the hinges rattling before the knob begins to twist. A wave of hot, white panic shoots down my legs, numbing them in place.
Someone’s trying to break in.
My fingers tremble as I swipe open my phone, ready to dial 911. The door suddenly swings open on the last bang, before I even get the chance, and I yelp, almost losing my grip on the phone.
Stumbling through the doorway is a frail, thin-boned woman, her dark knotted strands of hair obscuring her face as she’s kicked inside by someone behind her.
She crashes to the floor with another sharp cry that shoots straight into my chest, coiling around my racing heart. I recognize her instantly.
“Mom?” I force out, my throat closing up, voice strained.
I completely forgot she was back. We haven’t seen or spoken to each other since the day she came back with my car.
She doesn’t look up, instead scrambling on her hands and knees, sobbing, as a much larger figure raises a muddied boot to her back, pressing her forward to make room for himself to step inside.
My heart stills, my body losing all function for a moment as I stand there, frozen, watching him come into focus.
He draws closer, stopping beneath the lit bulb in the pathway.
Bile rushes to the front of my mouth as I catch sight of the long scar across his lips, the faded line slashing his left cheek, marring it in the exact place I clawed it years ago when I fought him off of me.
He barks at my mother to get out of his way.
She flinches as he draws his leg back, ready to shove it into her again.
So small beneath him. Diminished, collapsing inward, a ghost of the woman she used to be.
Before I even realize it, my lips move and I’m speaking, my voice sounding foreign and distant.
Old, unpleasant memories resurfacing, holding me prisoner.
“Steven?” I call out, my stomach churning as I say his name for the first time in years, my chest squeezing tight as I try to make sense of the scene in front of me.
How’s he here? How’d he get ahold of my mom?
Why? Why’s he here?
They broke up a long time ago. I don’t understand.
My fingers tighten over my phone, holding it close to my chest as my heart pounds hard enough to fracture my ribs.
The beating infiltrates my hearing, blocking out the rest of the noise momentarily.
When his head lifts, eyes locking with mine, the drumming in my ears flattens into a faint, long ring, my fingers growing numb.
He looks exactly as I remember him from my childhood, only the scar is more faded, his stomach rounder, his face pudgier, his hair graying. A wicked grin flashes across his stubbled cheeks, souring the influx of bile already gathering in my mouth. I could hurl.
“Well, would you look at that?” he marvels, his booming voice spearing through my chest, slowing my breath until I feel woozy.
“If it ain’t little Aria.” His gaze drags over me, slow and revolting, from head to toe.
A shiver crawls down my spine as his eyes settle on mine again.
“You’re startin’ to look like your mother.
Back when she was worth lookin’ at, anyway. ”
I swallow hard, forcing the bitterness down. “Why’s she crying?”
He scoffs and swings the door shut behind him with a heavy thud, face twisting with disgust. “That’s none of your concern. This is between me and the old hag.”
Hurt and betrayal lace through my chest as I try to catch my mom’s eyes, but she doesn’t look at me. Not once.
Shame burrows into her as she curls in on herself, her sobs quieter now, though the tremors still cling to her limbs. She stays hunched, her gaze fixed on nothing, until he fists a hand into her tangled hair and yanks, ripping a whimper from her throat.
The sound of it rips through me, raw and aching, wounding me in a way I can’t deny to myself.
Even after everything she’s done—from letting herself hollow out, fading into dust, treating me as an afterthought—I still can’t shake my feelings for her away.
She’s still my mother. Still a victim. All she has to do is try.
Just try, and I’ll side with her. We’re stronger together. We can get rid of him. Together.
Her eyes finally find mine as Steven yanks her to her feet. There’s a warning in them as she tilts her head, just enough to send the message. Begging. Pleading. Don’t intervene.
It knocks the air from my lungs. My chest clamps tight. Vision blurs as tears rise, fast and unwanted, burning with the shame of thinking she’d even want my help.
She hasn’t changed at all. Still shielding him. Still abandoning herself. Still abandoning me.
She isn’t going to fight for us.
It’s easier to stay small, to submit to his blows and vile remarks, but I’m not going to stand for it. Not this time. Not again.
She can stay flattened beneath his boot, waiting for the day he pressed too hard, but I’m done being a witness to it. I’m not that weak, terrified little girl anymore.
The decision has already seeped through me, slow and silent, like fuel soaking everything I’ve clung onto for so long, until Steven lifts his hand, and something inside me ignites, snapping me into motion.
Already spun around, I sprint toward my room, unwilling to linger back long enough to watch him backhand her. My fists clench at my sides, neck taut as I hold my head high, refusing to cower like my mother.
There’s no way I’m going to stay here with him under the same roof. It isn’t safe anymore.
I rip open the top drawer beside my bed, snatch my keys, and shove my phone deep into my jeans pocket before darting out of the room, momentum pitching me forward as I catch myself on the stair railing, twisting back just enough to make sure they’re gone.
The entryway is empty. Mom’s wails echo through the house, drowned by the sound of the fridge door slamming shut, Steven barking about how empty it is before striking her again when she can’t keep quiet.
Seizing the moment, I make a beeline to the front door, snatching my shoes from where they’re tossed off to the side and bolting outside with them clutched in hand, chest burning from the exertion.
I sprint hard. I sprint fast.
Never once do I glance over my shoulder, uncaring whether they’ve noticed or not. Halfway down the porch, a sharp pebble catches my bare foot, jagged edges slicing into my skin. I stumble, hurl the shoes to the ground, shove my feet in, and reach the battered Camry moments later.
Wrenching the door open, it rattles and pings as I leap inside, slamming it shut behind me. The engine sputters to life after I jab the keys into the ignition. Panic grips me, hands trembling as I fumble with the side mirror, then punch the gas pedal down.
My thoughts are a scrambled blur, emotions high as I tear out the dark driveway, headlights carving out a bright, narrow tunnel through the bleak night, blinding and endless, beckoning me to block everything else out and follow it.
I don’t know where it’ll lead me. I just know anywhere is better than here.