Chapter 1 The Past #2
I nodded and pushed off from the box, weaving between rows of tightly packed fiction. My fingertips danced over author surnames—Austen, Bradbury, Christie—until I drew her from the shelf: a crisp hardcover clad in Christie’s name.
I slid it out and offered it to him.
“Thanks.” He accepted it with a small smile. The paper felt cool against my palm. “Is it a good book?” Genuine curiosity flickered in his eyes.
I swallowed, trying to mask the tight coil of emotion in my throat. He was Caiden’s best friend, an alliance bound by loyalty I could never break. “It’s… interesting,” I said, trying for casual.
He laughed softly, the sound warm in the hush of the stacks. “Cool. If I’m going to read this, I have to like it.”
A polite smile curved my lips, though my heart thumped so loudly I was sure he could hear it. Dante had rescued me not long ago, but friendship with him felt forbidden, like tasting sugar when my enemy held the recipe.
“Well, I hope you enjoy it,” I whispered, turning to leave.
He stepped beside me, concern knitting his brow. “Hold up, are you okay? I’ve been thinking about you. I felt terrible about what happened.”
A metallic tang rose in my mouth.
Panic, shame, anger all at once.
I clenched my jaw until my teeth ached. “I’m fine.” The lie slipped out on a bitter note. “You helped me. I’m grateful. But Dante… you’re his best friend, and I’m the girl Caiden hates.”
His shoulders sagged, but he shook his head. “Just because I’m his friend doesn’t mean I hate you. I’ve known you a long time. As for Caiden, he’s just dealing with a lot right now.”
I crossed my arms, a cold laugh catching in my throat. “Like what? Plotting new ways to hurt me?”
He flinched, just a flicker of hurt in his dark eyes, and part of me felt triumphant. But then he spoke softly: “It’s not just you. At home, his father’s not kind.”
I frowned. “Then maybe he should take it out on someone who can stand up to him.”
“Amelia, I’m really sorry.” His apology trembled between us.
I wanted to tear down my walls, let him see the tremor in my heart, but I couldn’t. “It’s fine. What do you want from me, Dante?”
He inhaled deeply and met my gaze with an intensity that made the world hush around us. Every beat of my heart echoed in my ears. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for a long time, Amelia. You know that.”
Silence draped over me like a heavy curtain. To be wanted by him felt like both rescue and ruin. If Caiden ever knew –
I shivered, imagining dark eyes gleaming.
“Dante, I can’t,” I whispered, voice barely more than a breath.
His shoulders slumped, sadness softening his features. “I know. I just needed to say it.”
He stepped close, the warmth of his body brushing mine, and pressed a quick, gentle kiss to my cheek, longer than a friend’s touch, before squeezing my hand.
My heart fluttered, torn between terror and longing.
Without another word, he turned and vanished around the corner, leaving me alone among the silent shelves.
I couldn’t have him. I was doomed to fall into a pit of loneliness, cut off from love and belonging. Maybe if things were different, we could have been something more.
The rest of the day passed in a dreamlike haze: the ghost of his lips on my skin, the ache of hope and heartbreak entwined in every heartbeat.
Inside our house, the usual fog of cigarette smoke and stale gin hit me. I stood in the entryway, listening; no sounds except the rhythmic tick of the kitchen clock, the hum of the fridge, and from somewhere in the gloom, a muted snore.
Mom.
She’d passed out on the couch, mascara streaked like a bruise beneath each eye. A tremor ran up my spine, I couldn’t decide if it was hatred or pity that moved me.
My head kept replaying Dante’s confession, the earnest tremble in his voice, and how it felt to be wanted, even for a moment.
I tried to imagine a world where I wasn’t just a victim, but I failed.
In the absence of noise, the memory of Caiden’s hands on my body looped through my mind like a bad film, every detail amplified and distorted.
Maybe the ocean, if I could swing it. I could see myself on a windblown campus, wearing sweaters that didn’t smell like mom’s cigarette haze, talking to people who didn’t know the taste of violence.
Maybe I’d invent a new self, one who was never prey.
Later that night, I crept into the dimly lit living room. My mother sat slumped on the couch, a half-empty bottle of wine resting on the table beside her. The television cast shadows on her face, emphasizing the lines of fatigue etched into her skin.
“Hey, Mom,” I said softly, crossing the room. Her eyes remained glued to the screen, the same rerun of a show she’d probably seen a dozen times already. I waited for her to look at me, to ask about my day, but the silence hung thick between us.
“Hi, Amelia,” she murmured, her voice distant. I swallowed hard, feeling the edges of loneliness creeping back. “I’m going to my room,” I said, retreating before the ache in my chest could become unbearable.
I passed Lillian’s door, my sister’s sanctuary. I hesitated, wondering if she was home. The sound of muffled music wafted through the crack beneath her door. I knocked lightly, but there was no answer.
Disappointed, I slipped into my own room, the walls painted a shade of blue that was meant to soothe me, but tonight it felt like a prison. I pulled out my sketchbook, flipping through the pages to find solace in art.
But as I drew, my thoughts wandered back to Caiden. The way his eyes had narrowed, that sneer plastered on his face.
After a while, I heard my mother’s voice drifting, slurred and shaky, calling for Lillian. I strained to listen, filled with concern for my sister, who had been struggling to find her own way in the world.
“Lillian? Can you come here?” Mom’s voice was softer now, almost pleading.
I could hear Lillian’s footsteps, slow and hesitant. “What is it, Mom?” she asked, the weariness in her tone was clear.
“I just… I need someone to talk to.” There was a long pause, and then I heard the creak of the couch as Lillian sat down beside her.
“Okay, I’m here,” Lillian said, her voice steady, but I could sense the tension in her words. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing… just feeling a bit down, you know?” Mom replied, her voice laced with the familiar sadness that always accompanied her substance usage.
I could feel the bile rising in my throat. It wasn’t just “a bit down.” It was an endless cycle of despair that had trapped our family in a suffocating embrace.
I wanted to intervene, to tell Lillian to walk away, but I knew she wouldn’t. She was always the one trying to save Mom, to pull her back from the edge.
Yet, she was also the one to carry the weight of my mother’s anger and drug-infused outbursts.
Some days, my mother was kind to Lillian. The air crackled with tension on other days, as her screams of accusation and blame filled the house. Spitting words of resentment, laced with venom and spite.
While I, the younger child, was a mere shadow in the house. Neglected and forgotten by my mother who chose the path of drugs after my father left, curling into her sorrows and trauma, allowing it to consume her.
The conversation continued in hushed tones, and I felt helpless as I retreated into my sketchbook. I drew the familiar strokes of trees and landscapes, my emotions bleeding onto the page.
But as I sketched, my mind kept drifting back to Caiden.
I finished my sketch, the ink smudging slightly as I pressed my palm against the paper, lost in the swirl of emotions.
I had to find a way to navigate the tangled web of my life between my mother, my sister, and Caiden.
But as I closed my eyes, exhaustion washed over me, and I let the darkness take me. The weight of the day settled into my bones, and I knew tomorrow would bring its own battles.
But for now, in the quiet of my room, I could pretend that everything was okay.