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“Let me think about it,” he says quietly as heat washes over my face, mortification setting in. “Get some rest.”
Chapter Sixteen
Kash
Learn to pick your battles, my mom always told me.
Count your blessings.
Careful what you wish for.
Guard your back.
And what good did it do her, all this fucking wisdom? She didn’t guard her back. That was the only thing that mattered in the end, but she let her guard down.
Like I almost did just now.
I can’t. can’t stay. No way. That’d be dumb. Idiotic. Not to mention dangerous.
Still, the bruises on Nate’s wrist are stuck in my mind as I wash a mountain of dishes at the restaurant, as I clean the tables, and the counters, and mop the floors.
And then when I return to the apartment, careful not to run into Nate’s dad, and get ready for bed.
Nate’s bedroom door is closed. The apartment is quiet. It reminds me of when I first arrived and met him outside the kitchen. How he’d stared at me like a creeper.
I never asked him about that.
I also never got around to asking him about his dad and his buddies, and what that was all about. Good thing is that I managed to snag West on the stairs as I came back, and he told me Nate’s dad doesn’t beat him.
Apparently. Manhandles him a bit too roughly sometimes, maybe. West didn’t sound too convinced. He sounded worried, even as he tried to appear calm.
I spit out toothpaste and wash my hands, dry them and throw the towel on the rack, anger heating my neck. It doesn’t fucking matter. Life is hard. It doesn’t pull its punches. Don’t I know it first hand? No reason to feel pity or sympathy. Empathy. Not if I’m not sticking around to do something about it.
Entering my room, I lock the door and grab my journal on my way to bed. I feel out of sorts, and short of breath, but the thought of going back out to smoke sucks the last of my energy.
I fall on top of the messy covers and open the journal at my last entry. Seeing the words is a kick to my stomach, and the greasy fries George made me eat “cuz you’re too skinny and somebody has to feed you” churn alarmingly.
Raising my pen, I press the tip into the new page, but nothing comes. How can reliving the past help me? I put the pen down, and flip back, through memories, scraps and pieces of my past, and shiver.
It’s all there, on the pages, inside my head. Mom’s face as she looked down at me. Shelly’s laughter as I chased her around the garden. Dad pressing a piece of paper into my hand and telling me who to be wary of.
Who did the deed and who’s next.
Oh God. I curl on the bed, choking down bile and tears. Oh God, I can’t. I can’t breathe, I’m suffocating.
“Damn you!” I throw the journal to the floor and throw an arm over my eyes. Shaking, I curl up more tightly. This isn’t helping. I don’t know what can.
Nothing. Nothing can. It’s way too late.
“Come here,” Mom says, tugging on my hand. I look up at her. I’m a kid, and she’s radiating love, her long pale hair cascading over her shoulders, over her classic red dress. She’s the center of my world.
Shelly is babbling something, securely held in Dad’s arms, and I spare her a glance, annoyed at the noise she’s making. Stupid little sister.
She’s funny, though. Sometimes. And makes me smile.
I feel… that I should remember this. This moment, when I’m carefree, and happy. We’re in a restaurant. Chandeliers hang from the roof, and velvet curtains frame the large windows. Waiters run to and fro, carrying round trays piled high with plates and glasses.
Dad gestures at someone, and a tall, square-shouldered guy opens his arms and comes toward us, a huge grin on his face. He’s somehow similar to Dad, I think, as the guy slaps him on the back and leads us to the back of the restaurant, Mom’s hand wrapped securely around mine.
