25. Home
HOME
I t’s nearly midnight when Drake drops me off at my house. He kisses me lightly on the lips. I invite him in, but he declines. He’s uncomfortable spending the night knowing my uncle sleeps just down the hall.
I get it.
And I’m okay to wait.
Today’s been a heavy day. Last night was a heavy night. We opened up to each other, sharing the pain of our pasts. We’re closer for it, but I sense he needs a bit of breathing space to internalize what it all means.
I know I do.
My step is light, heart pulsating with everything that comes with falling in love.
Falling in love.
It hits me. I’m hopelessly, head over heels in love.
My uncle must’ve gone to bed early. All the lights are off. I head into the kitchen, tiptoeing, as I don’t want to wake my uncle. As his disease progresses, fatigue pulls at him. He needs all the rest he can get.
Entering the kitchen, I catch something underfoot, kicking it across the floor. Sounding like broken glass, it skitters across the linoleum floor. I fumble for the light switch and flick on the light.
My eyes pinch when I see poor Boston on the floor, his pot shattered, blackened fronds crumbling, and roots sticking up.
Boston was on the window ledge—my attempt at resuscitating the poor fern. I’ve been diligently watering him. I take him outside each morning to soak up sunlight and bring him in at night, afraid we might have another freak cold snap that would doom him for good.
He’s not thriving. He’s barely surviving.
But I distinctly remember bringing him inside before my date with Drake last night. How the hell did he get all the way over here? If he fell off the window ledge, he’d be on the counter, or in the sink.
It’s almost as if someone grabbed him and threw him on the…
I clutch at my belly as a sudden creeping sense of dread overcomes me. There’s no way my uncle would touch Boston. He knows what the poor fern means to me. How important it is that Boston survive.
I suck in a breath when movement in my peripheral vision catches my eye. I turn around slowly, barely daring to move, as terror flows through my veins. The door to the pantry stands open. Leaning against the doorjamb, Scott levies a murderous gaze in my direction.
“About time you got home.” He inspects his cuticles. It’s a slow, agonizing movement, as if he’s got all the time in the world.
I’ve seen him like this before. It’s what he does when he decides I need to be punished. He likes to draw out the suspense, making me shake with fear.
“What are you doing here?” My fingers claw at the fabric of my shirt as I debate what to do next.
I’m too far from the kitchen door leading outside. I’m equally far from the front door. No matter which way I jump, Scott will be on me before I can escape.
I suddenly regret Drake not wanting to stay.
“The better question is why you weren’t here.” Malevolence boils in his gaze. Fury bunches in his shoulders. Anger flexes in his biceps. His fingers curl, forming hands into fists.
Fists I know all too well.
I gulp and slowly slide my left foot back.
At least I know what happened to poor Boston.
Scott broke in, either late last night or earlier today. No doubt he recognized the fern. In his rage, I clearly see Scott grabbing Boston, lifting the poor thing in the air, then slamming it down on the floor.
Destroying the things I care about is exactly how he operates.
Then it hits me.
“What did you do to my uncle?”
“I haven’t done shit to him.” Spittle flies out of Scott’s mouth as he spits out the words. “He’s been in his room for hours.” Scott’s voice rises in pitch, turning into a blood-chilling shout.
“Please…” I hold out my hand, palm out, as if that will stop Scott.
“Hours!” Scott takes a step forward as I take one back. “Were you fucking him? Is that what you were doing?”
I could try to escape, but if my uncle is here, and I have no reason to think he isn’t, there’s no way I’m leaving him with Scott.
I’ve seen Scott mad. I’ve seen him angry. What I’ve never seen is Scott enraged. I need to get Scott outside and away from my uncle.
“We should talk outside.” My voice shakes with the fear flooding my system. My legs shake like wet noodles. My breaths catch in my throat.
“Damn straight, we need to talk.” He takes another step, testing me.
I’ve learned not to run. It was one of my earliest lessons, one beaten into me until I curled into the fetal position and begged Scott to stop hitting me until I lost my voice.
Scott hates when I force him to come after me. He thinks I should fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness he’ll never give.
“Scott…” I continue to hold out my hand as if that will stop him.
But with each word, I take another step back, drawing Scott out of the kitchen while moving me closer to the door.
If I can get out, maybe one of the neighbors will hear me scream. Maybe they’ll call the cops or come running with their shotguns. Everyone is armed. Back in Redlands, that’s something I would find concerning. In Peace Springs, it’s commonplace.
I gain another two feet, drawing Scott into the living room.
“Who the fuck were you with?” Scott plants his feet and looks down the hall leading to my uncle’s bedroom.
“Scott…” My voice waivers.
My gut tells me to lie. That I wasn’t out with anyone, but Scott will know the lie on my tongue.
Besides, I’m positive he heard Drake and I say our goodbyes on the porch. I’m certain he saw everything.
If he’s been here for hours, he watched Drake’s truck pull up to the curb. He saw Drake give me a hand out of the truck. He noticed the way our fingers twined together as we held hands walking to the front door.
“You need to leave.” I try rolling my shoulders back and stiffening my spine. Interjecting strength into my position, however, does nothing.
“You’re coming with me.” Scott glances around the living room, weighing options, finding weapons to beat me with.
His eyes glaze over with his inebriation. His emotions magnify, turning his anger into something deadly.
Too many times, this man made me fear for my life. Too many times, he decided to beat some sense into me. Too many times, I wound up in the emergency room.
My injuries included cracked ribs, concussions, abdominal bruising, black eyes, and one orbital rim fracture. All courtesy of Scott’s fists.
My hand drifts up to the old injury as the memory of that night returns. I slide my right foot back.
“Don’t.” His low growl freezes me in my tracks. “Don’t you dare run from me.”