Page 27 of Silent Damage

Get out of here.

I put on my shoes and shirt, and walk out.

I don't know where I’m going, but I can’t be in this trailer with him any longer. I’ll wander the streets of Belmont all day if I have to.

Chapter 8

Gabe

Isit on my bed in nothing but loose, flannel boxers and a camo baseball cap, shading an image of Mechagodzilla on my phone. Jason left and didn’t come back, and the way he looked at me in the backyard has plagued my mind all day.

It was so sweet—like before.

Then he snapped out of it and ran away like a chicken-shit asshole.

The image I’m using as inspiration is something I found while scrolling on my phone, which is currently propped up by a pillow, giving me the perfect view of it. I wanted to draw a robot—something made of metal—because that’s what I need: a steel shell to protect me now that Jason is back.

As I add the line details to its scorpion-like tail, I hear the front door screech open.

Jason stumbles into the trailer, nearly falling over, but catches himself before actually tumbling.

Shit.

I can already tell he’s drunk. How drunk, I don’t know, but from the way he’s walking and his red face, I can definitely tell he’s been drinking.

Our eyes meet.

It’s a clear view from him to me, and neither of us can look away.

He’s a mess—his clothes are dirty and his hair’s disheveled. He probably stole a forty from somewhere and just drank in the woods all day.

That was something he used to do when we were kids.

I drop the pencil and pad as he approaches and brace myself for the attack.

This is drunk Jason, which is a different kind of chaos.

He stops just outside the bedroom and looks at me with an unreadable expression.

The trailer lights highlight his cheekbones, still raw from the fight we had.

He licks his lips as he watches me, and I get flashbacks from the night before.

His eyes trail down to the sketch pad resting on my lap. “Can I see?” he asks.

I tense up, afraid he’ll say something shitty about it just to be a dick and almost give him the middle finger, but I stop myself.

Because I look at his face.

Even though he’s drunk, I can see the boy who used to love watching me draw. There was something so intimate about it—feeling his gaze locked on me while I worked. The appreciation he’d show once I was done would melt my whole heart.

I can’t help it.

I slowly reveal the metal monster I’ve spent the last two hours drawing.

He cocks his head to the side, studying it for a few beats before saying, “Sick.”

My cheeks are red.