Chapter 12
TWELVE
TORI
Past
I’m not sure when I drifted off, but the slam of the front door jerks me awake like a gunshot. My heart launches into my throat as I bolt upright on the couch, the blanket tangled around my legs. The room is dark, except for the glow of the TV screen still playing some rerun I wasn’t watching.
“God fucking dammit.”
Chase. I hear him in the foyer, tripping over his own feet as he stumbles to take off his shoes. I hear his body slam against the entry table, keys dropping to the floor instead of hanging on the hook next to the coat closet.
He’s drunk. Of course he’s drunk. Still mumbling to himself, Chase turns the corner into the living room and stops short when he sees me sitting there.
For a moment, I’m not sure if he realizes it’s me.
His body halts, but his words continue as if he’s been conversing with the person in front of him the entire time.
He reeks of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke.
Something sour—vomit, maybe?—clings to his clothes.
I can’t remember the last time he was so drunk that he threw up, but I also can’t remember the last time he smoked.
His drinking has grown worse over the years, and I’ve tried to talk to him about it, to no avail.
I used to try everything—pouring the bottles out, hiding them, begging him to stop. At some point, you stop playing tug-of-war when the other person drops the rope.
Tonight, though? Something is wrong. Something is terribly, terribly wrong.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” he asks, breaking his monologue of “Of fucking course this would happen” sentiments.
I rise slowly, unsure of whether I should speak or wait. My heart is already pounding in my chest, my hands clutching the blanket like a shield.
“I asked you a question, goddammit!”
Speak it is, then. “What happened?” I ask gently, trying not to further agitate the situation. “Are you okay?”
He scoffs, then laughs—a bitter, broken sound that holds no real humor.
“Just. Fucking. Peachy,” he spits, taking a mocking stance, hands on his hips and venom in his tone. “Everything in my life is fucking perfect.”
I literally don’t know how to respond to this. So I wait.
Tossing his arms in the air, Chase shouts, “I’m going to be a fucking uncle!”
Oh. Oh.
My throat goes dry. “Trent and Fallon?”
He nods, jerky and exaggerated. “Yep. Trent and Fallon. Golden boy and his golden girl. Knocked up and glowing. Of course they are.”
Wrapping my arms around my middle, I lower myself back onto the couch slowly. I’m happy for Trent and Fallon—truly, I am—but if there is one person in this world who sets off Chase’s insecurities and feelings of inadequacy more than anyone else, it’s his little brother.
“Chase, I’m sorry. That must’ve been hard to hear,” I say softly, trying to sound steady, even though my body is already bracing for impact.
“Hard to hear?” His voice climbs, sharper now. “Hard to hear? Jesus fucking Christ, Tori. Do you even fucking get it?”
He starts pacing, hands clenching and unclenching like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
“It doesn’t fucking matter what I do. That punk-ass kid will always be a step ahead of me. He bought a house before I did. He made partner before I did. And now he’s having a goddamn baby before me. Before us.”
His words are laced with fury, but the way he says “us” feels like an accusation. A punch without the wind-up.
“We grew up in the same house. Had the same fucked-up parents. Same genetics. Same foster houses. Same lack of fucking opportunities. And still—still—he’s always one step ahead.”
He paces faster now, fists clenched at his sides like he’s holding back something too big to name.
“He’s always got the upper hand. Better looking. Better job. Better fucking cars. Hot as fuck wife. She actually likes him.”
My chest tightens, bracing for what’s coming. The oxygen in the room feels thinner with every word he spits.
“And what do I get?” He spins on me, venom in his voice. “A wife who fucking pities me. A mediocre life. And a cock that can’t even do the one thing it’s created to do.”
The words hit me like a slap. My hands instinctively press against my stomach as though to protect it from him, from this moment, from everything he just said.
I force a breath through my lips and stand, taking a step toward him. I want to withdraw from him, but I know it’s in these moments that I need to draw near. He needs me more than ever right now. He just doesn’t know how to ask for it.
“Chase, please don’t talk like that. We’re doing everything we can. We’re going to figure this out, okay?”
“For fuck’s sake, just shut up.” His voice curdles. “You always have something to say. Always trying to spin it. You think your optimism makes you helpful? It makes you a fucking joke!”
I take a small step back. He follows.
“You think I don’t see it in your eyes? The disappointment? The pity? You think you could do better than me? You think I can’t do better than you?! I fucking know I can!”
I don’t even know who he’s attacking anymore. All I know is that I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to hear any of this.
His finger jabs through the air, inches from my face. I take another step back, heart racing.
“Chase, you’re scaring me,” I whisper. “Please, just—”
“I’m scaring you?” he snaps. “I’m the one who’s scared, Tori!
Everything about me is broken. Nothing is ever enough!
I’m not enough for you. I’m not enough for anyone.
I’m always gonna be the fucked-up version of the man I’m supposed to be!
And then I come home to you—you—the one person who’s supposed to have my back, and all I get is pity and your fucking optimism and your empty womb! ”
I flinch, my whole body trembling now. “That’s not fair,” I whisper, tears slipping down my cheeks. I inch back further and my heel hits the baseboard. “I don’t pity you. I love you.”
An eerie calm settles over him, so quiet it almost makes me sicker than the shouting. He moves with intention, placing one hand on either side of my head against the wall, caging me in. His breath hits my cheek—hot, rancid, sharp with the bite of whiskey and something rotten. I don’t dare breathe.
Lowering his face to mine, Chase locks eyes with me. There’s nothing in them now. No warmth. No recognition. Just a man hollowed out and hunting for someone to blame.
When he speaks, his voice is low—quiet enough to be mistaken for tenderness by anyone not standing in my place—but every syllable is laced with cruelty.
“Love?” he murmurs, so close it curls in my ear. “Was it love when you latched onto the broken foster kid because you wanted to fix him? A little project for you to heal and patch up with your sunshine and spreadsheets?”
My stomach churns, bile burning the back of my throat.
“Was it love when you decided your perfect life would look better with a tragedy in the prom pictures? When you told yourself I just needed stability? That you were the answer to all my fucked-up questions?”
I blink rapidly, trying to hold back tears I know will only provoke him more.
He leans in closer—too close—his voice dipping into something almost soft, almost intimate, but soaked in venom.
“Was it love when you manipulated me into marrying you? When you smiled and promised me I’d be happy, that you’d be enough? Because you thought a good woman and a white picket fence would fix all the cracks in my fucking soul?”
I shake my head, barely, just barely, afraid even that motion will send him spiraling.
He doesn’t flinch. Just stares at me like I’m the reason he hates his own reflection.
“All I feel is dead inside,” he breathes, “all the goddamn time. And you? You’re the one who pulled me under.”
He pauses just long enough to lower his voice into something more dangerous. More accusatory.
“You’re nothing but a burden. A fucking anchor. You hold me down, and you smile while doing it.”
The pause is worse than the yelling. The calm before a punch that hasn’t landed.
“You think your little encouragements make me feel better? They make me small. Useless. FUCKING. TRAPPED.”
He slams his fist into the wall beside my head, hard enough that he punches clean through the drywall.
The force sends a puff of dust into my face. I scream, hands covering my head, waiting for the next hit.
But it never comes.
I stay there, shaking, the sob trapped in my throat. Maybe if I stay still enough, silent enough, I’ll disappear. Maybe if I don’t move, he’ll remember who I am and not who he thinks I’ve become.
He steps back, panting, chest heaving, and without another word, storms toward the bedroom. The door slams behind him so hard the frame rattles.
And I slide down the wall, legs folding beneath me as the tears come.
Big, heavy, silent sobs that feel like they’re tearing something loose inside me.
I don’t know how long I sit there. Long enough for the rage in the walls to settle. Long enough for the ache in my chest to dull into something more manageable.
Something like numbness.
The room is quiet again, except for the flicker of the TV and the sound of the heater clicking on. I focus on that noise—the heater—like it might ground me. I count the clicks. One, two, three. It hums. It breathes. It’s something solid.
I think about texting Skye. My phone is only a few feet away, abandoned on the coffee table. All I’d have to do is reach. But what would I say? He punched a wall tonight? I’m scared, but I still love him? Please come get me, even though I’m not sure I’ll go?
Instead, I crawl the few feet to the couch, resting my back against the side so I see the evidence of what just happened. And I stay there, tracing the outline of the hole in the drywall with my eyes. It’s jagged. Raw. Exposed.
Just like me.