35. Running Away
RUNNING AWAY
PRESENT
The silence is only broken by the landline ringing in the living room. Blythe recovers from her shock well enough to bark at me not to leave the house before she storms over to answer the call. I drag myself up the staircase, each step feeling heavier and heavier until I finally reach my bedroom.
My body collapses backward, closing the door behind me as I sink to the floor, an inconsolable sob scraping from my lungs.
Drawing my legs up to my chest, I hug my knees as Blythe’s voice carries up to me.
I can’t make out anything she’s saying, and I don’t want to.
For the first time in years, tears freely pour from my eyes as my whole body is racked with sobs.
After some time, another voice joins Blythe’s downstairs, sounding an awful lot like Samara, my dad’s publicist. And it also sounds like he’s been asked to step down from hosting an upcoming fundraiser due to “a lack of family values.” They must now be in the kitchen, because their voices carry up into my room through the floor vent far too clearly.
And just like eighteen months ago, they’re hashing out the same strategy: Keep Ali out of the spotlight (a.k.a. lock her away in the house).
After what happened, I had to do all of my schooling remotely senior year, which I was honestly grateful for, but it didn’t stop there.
Not only was I not allowed to attend any events or visit the country club, but I couldn’t so much as go grocery shopping.
They didn’t want me seen around town at all, and only after two months of chronic house arrest was I allowed to work, but no longer at the pizza place.
It could only be somewhere nobody from school or the country club would visit, a.k.a.
the public library on the south side of town.
I had been made to feel like a fungus that everyone tried to hide away, and it had been done by my own family.
I thought going away to college had allowed me to move past all of this, but it hadn’t.
Not really. Just because you survived the crash doesn’t mean you’ll heal.
I may have pried myself from the wreckage, but I didn’t get the help I needed.
All I did was limp down the road and bleed out somewhere else.
Sure, time allowed the scrapes to scab over and the bruises to fade.
On the outside, I could pass for normal, but the broken bits never truly mended.
Deep down, I remained fractured and deformed, and the people who were supposed to love me the most had left me that way.
Never would I let them do that again.
The tips of my fingers turn purple as I struggle to lug two bulging suitcases, my gym bag, and Swaddle the Penguin down the stairs, grateful for the commotion in the kitchen.
Nobody stands a chance of hearing me drag everything outside amid Blythe’s freakout as Samara gets another call concerning my father’s endorsements.
I could probably fall down the stairs, and no one would notice.
Hell, I can hear Blythe’s yelling until I’ve made it down the front walkway.
Since Maggie doesn’t have her phone, I can’t let her know I’m on my way to her place, but the same ugly thought keeps intruding.
I have nowhere to go. Not really. There are already too many people staying at Maggie’s to support one more, and Jase is staying at my house.
Sure, Reed would let me crash at his place, no questions asked, but his family life isn’t exactly Brady Bunch material.
The only other person I know is Wes, and even if he gives me the chance to clear up this misunderstanding, what could I say to him?
“ Hey, I know we’ve only gone out once, but would you mind if I lived with you for the rest of the summer?
” Yeah, because that doesn’t sound crazy…
All I can do is take things one step at a time, starting with getting the hell out of here.
Thankfully, my suitcases have wheels, so I’m able to haul them down the front walkway without much effort, but my gym bag is killing me.
Even though I keep switching sides to alleviate the pain, the weight bearing down on my shoulders makes my arms feel like they might rip right out of their sockets by the time I make it down the driveway to my car.
I could have sworn I parked much closer to the house yesterday, and by the time I’ve driven into the Southside on my way to Maggie’s, I realize I’m right.
Vanessa must have borrowed my car since I last used it because, once again, the vehicle wheezes as I look down at my gas gauge to see the needle well below E.
I laugh. It’s all I can do at this point because, of course, this would happen to me now. At least I have the forethought this time to pull off to the shoulder before the car sputters to a stop.
My phone goes off for the hundredth time since leaving the house, and I immediately regret looking at it.
A number of people from college follow Maggie on social media, so it’s not surprising they’ve seen her post, but it appears word has spread even further.
Based on my inbox, it’s safe to assume the whole school knows.
I’m not sure how long I sit there watching the rain distort my view through the windshield, but there’s a solace in the steady drumming as it pelts the top of the vehicle. I know I should order a car service to pick me up, but minute after minute ticks by, and I don’t move.
Only when someone blasts their horn behind me do I snap out of my haze long enough to check if it’s directed at me.
It’s not. My phone continues to do its best impression of a vibrator on the passenger seat, and I only grab it to shut it off entirely.
I hesitate, however, when I see Reed’s name come up onscreen for an incoming call.
But it’s not his voice that greets me upon answering. “Hey, is everything okay?” Jase asks. There’s a gentleness to his tone, but it’s still laced heavily with concern.
Yeah, after running into Wes, Maggie and I only swung by Aria’s place long enough to drop off the coffee we bought for everyone before making an excuse about needing to do some errands.
Neither Jase nor Reed looked to be buying it, but with everything they’re working on right now, dropping this heaping load of bullshit into either of their laps wouldn’t be fair.
And because they’re preoccupied with the Aria situation, they’re none the wiser to Trent’s latest smear campaign. If they were, I wouldn’t be getting a mere phone call.
I do my best to reassure Jase that I’m fine, but I’m not sure how good of a job I do, especially when I ask if I can speak to Reed.
“Dolcezza?”
Even now, I can’t resist smiling upon hearing his nickname for me, and I’m pretty sure it’s the only thing that adds any brevity to my voice. “You wouldn’t happen to know anywhere in the south side that serves alcohol without an ID, would you?”
The question obviously takes Reed aback, because there’s an awkwardly long pause before he finally offers a recommendation.
And it couldn’t be more perfect. It’s right off Holland Street, only about three blocks from here.
“Should I be worried?” he asks.
I continue to eye the drugstore across the way, breaking out the umbrella I have stored behind the passenger seat. “Only if you’re my hair.”