Chapter 33 Aria
ARIA
The door to the café clatters shut behind me as I step into the scorching near-summer sun, a hand raised to block out the glare while I scan the lot for my silver Camry.
My other hand tugs at the loose neckline of my top, trying to stir some breeze beneath the fabric, still sticky from the heat and last night’s sweat.
I’ve been sulking through most of the day, running on very little sleep and even less clarity.
The high of our reunion has already worn off, dissolving into something heavier.
Something that seeps under my skin and lodges in the back of my throat, distracting me as I try to carry on like everything is fine.
It's the slow, sinking realization that no matter how far I run, my problems will always find a way to catch up to me.
Last night blindsided me. One minute I was doodling in bed, the next I was stumbling out the door with nothing but my phone, panic shoving me forward before I could think. I hadn’t grabbed a thing—no backpack, no wallet.
Not even my work apron. Becca had already scolded me about that before sending me home early again, clearly fed up this time.
I’m skating on thin ice, and I really can’t afford to lose this job. I still have that hundred-dollar ticket to pay off. And I need to survive the summer somehow, at least until I figure out what to do instead once Clara leaves for Columbia in the fall.
For now, I have a roof over my head and a shared wardrobe with Clara.
But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m driving without a license.
It’s illegal and wildly stupid. I’m left with no other choice but to go back home, if only to avoid Becca’s inevitable glare when I have to ask for a new apron and time off to replace my ID at the DMV.
Nerves twist in my stomach as I finally slide into the driver’s seat, jabbing the keys into the ignition.
The fuel gauge rises to full. It’s a small relief, but not enough to dull the sting of what I found when I stepped into the café earlier—just a sticky note on the counter, no sign of him anywhere.
I guess I shouldn’t have expected him to hang around all day before my shift started, but the emptiness still sinks heavier than expected.
It’s probably for the best. As far as he knows, I’m still going straight to Clara’s after this, just like we discussed this morning when he dropped me off at Hillside. By then, Clara was already flooding my phone with urgent texts, panicked from the scare I’d given her the night before.
I ease out of the cramped little nook I was parked in, chest tight as I yank down the sun visor to shield myself from the harsh light slashing through the windshield.
The air inside still holds his scent, woodsy and masculine, clinging to the coffee-stained fabric seats and drifting through the thick heat, where dust motes shimmer across the dashboard. I inhale it deeply, letting the reminder that he isn’t far settle the unease stirring in my chest.
He’d be furious if he knew I was going back there without telling him, especially after he offered to come inside with me this morning, so I could change and clean up before school. But I couldn’t let him. I didn’t want to.
Shame held me back, gripping me tight by the throat, constricting my air at just the thought of him witnessing anything that went on in that house.
I couldn’t bear to face the judgment I’d see in his eyes if he ever heard how Steven spoke to us, his vile, unhinged tirades, or my mom’s pathetic sobs as she trailed after him like she was tethered to a leash.
Worst of all, I was scared he’d pity me when he realized just how far my mother’s leash extended, how I’d let it tighten around me instead of cutting myself loose, something I should’ve done long ago.
So instead of going back like he suggested, I chose to sit in the passenger seat of his car, plucking leaves from my hair and smoothing out the wrinkles in my ivory top so I didn’t resemble a week-old, crumpled tissue on the way to school.
The ache between my thighs flares as I shift in the driver’s seat, still fiddling with the rearview mirror until I catch my reflection, cheeks tinged pink with leftover heat.
My panties are slightly crusted with the mess of our release, the faint scent of chlorine clinging to the hidden fabric, evidence of everything we did that I’ve yet to share in greater detail with Clara.
I promised I’d divulge more later tonight.
A few short moments later, I pull into the long, empty driveway, my fingers tapping against the steering wheel with restless energy and a thread of residual nervousness.
They might not even be home.
That’s best-case scenario. But even if they are…they’ve got nothing on me. I’m eighteen and fully grown. I don’t owe them anything, least of all Steven, who shouldn’t even be here to begin with.
I breathe out, slow and steady, then kill off the engine and reach for the door.
I head straight for the garage, not bothering to check beneath the front doormat for a spare key. I already know it won’t be there anymore. Instead, I jab in the code on the corroded keypad, crouch low, and slip beneath the rising door as soon as it lifts high enough to let me through.
Inside, I’m met with the sharp scent of alcohol, and my stomach sours.
Shattered glass glints across the floor, the jagged ends of broken cups and plates strewn across the scuffed vinyl floors of the kitchen.
My pulse kicks higher as I angle past the larger shards, my footsteps still crunching over loose bits, residue from the volatile environment that will soon swallow the rest of the house.
I stop at the far end of the kitchen, the narrow path between the front door and the staircase, and hold my breath, ears straining for the slightest sound.
But nothing.
It’s eerily silent.
Swallowing down my trepidation, I swing over the bottom of the rail, carefully stepping up and pausing when a stair creaks beneath me, my heart thudding loud in my ears. For crying out loud, I shouldn’t be tiptoeing through my own house. They’re not even home.
I continue up, faster now, though I still wince with every creak, like I’m sneaking through some post-apocalyptic world where even the softest sound can trigger an unseen danger waiting to strike.
Blowing out a breath, I turn into my room, the first one on the right, and nearly stumble back at the sight of a moving figure on my bed.
“M-Mom,” I choke out, heart thrashing as I try to steady it. “What are you doing in my room?”
She glances back at me, blinking through a stream of tears, one of her brown almond-shaped eyes blooming with varying shades of gnarly violet along the delicate skin, a corner of my bedsheet tangled in her trembling hands.
“What are you doing back so early?”
Her voice is raspier than usual, too weak to carry across the room without flinching from the effort. My gaze trails to the ugly bruises blooming over her neck in the shape of fingers. Long, stubby fingers. Steven’s fingers.
Against my better judgment, my heart aches, teeth sinking into my quivering lips to stop myself from saying something reckless, something I’ll regret.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
I fist my hands at my sides, nails digging into my skin as I swallow against the rising lump in my throat. “So, that’s it, then? You’re choosing that slob over your daughter? Even after knowing what he did to me?”
I can’t stop the bitter tears from rising, my voice cracking as I spit the words out like an idiot. Coming back here makes me the biggest idiot of all.
This is exactly why I didn’t want anyone to know I ever came back. No one needed to witness how pathetic I’ve become.
For a brief, brain-altering moment, the meek woman in front of me goes rigid, her knuckles straining white over the rich mauve of my blanket. “I’d never choose him over you,” she says quietly.
I haul in a deep breath, pushing the tears back. I swore I’d never cry over her again. “Doesn’t look like it to me.”
“There’s nothing I can tell you to fix this,” she says, her eyes dropping to her hands. “It’s all my fault that we’re here.”
Yeah. Damn right it is.
“Why’d you come back, Mom?”
Her brows knit together, the deep wrinkle between them tugging at the fragile part of my heart I’ve tried so hard to repress through the years.
“After that police officer called, I-I had to come back. I needed to make sure you were okay.”
“No, don’t say that,” I snap, whipping my head back, like her performative concern has turned into an airborne virus that’s drifted over and infected me. “You know you don’t get to say that.”
She slouches as she lifts the hem of her sunflower-yellow shirt to dab at her gleaming eyes, the bright fabric only drawing more attention to the bruise beneath her eye.
I grit my teeth as I dig my heels into the cushy carpet, ready to bail before I’ve even gathered what I came for.
“You were just a young girl when things broke off with me and Steven,” she says, her eyes pivoting to mine, locking into them with a fierceness I haven’t seen in her in a long, long time.
Refusing for my anger abate long enough to hear her carry on with another sob story like she always does, I stagger forward, eyes darting to the bedside drawers. “Save it for someone who cares, Mom.”
I scramble past her, ripping the drawer open to search for my wallet, the only real reason I came here in the first place.
A torrent of rage strikes me square in the chest, vibrations rippling through my entire body as I dig through piles of random collectables.
My throat burns like it’s on fire as I hold back a repressed scream.
How dare she bring him back here?
Him, out of all people.
Then acts like she has the right to lecture me with that same pathetic, tired tale I’ve heard so many times, I’ve stopped even registering it.
I can’t keep doing this. I want out of here.
“Aria, wait,” she calls out, her head spinning around. “Please, I’ll explain; let me explain.”