Fighting Our Way (Broken Tracks 2)

Smiling, I hitch up one shoulder in a half shrug. “That’s okay, we’ll talk later.”

They both hesitate, but after half a minute, they say their goodbyes and I watch out of the window next to the front door as they pull out of the driveway, leaving me alone.

Pulling in a deep breath, I step away and walk up the stairs. My stomach dips and memories of the last time I was here invade my mind. It feels like forever but at the same time just yesterday.

Turning left at the top of the stairs, I walk past two doors—an office and a bathroom—before I come to my bedroom door. The plaque with my name still sits in the middle of the white wood, and I run my fingers over it, whispering the word under my breath.

Pushing it open, I step inside, my Converse sinking into the plush mauve carpet as I travel back in time.

My bed is neatly made, the same way it was six years ago, and pictures hang off a board over the desk I used to sit at to do my homework.

The worn mattress groans as I sit on the edge, my gaze flitting around the cream walls which are covered in shelves that house all of my vinyl records. There has to be hundreds here, and I can’t help but pluck one off the shelf and walk over to my record player, putting it on and basking in the first notes of the music.

The small crackle over the speaker from the player brings a grin to my face before the soft voice starts to sing. There’s nothing like the smell of home and the comforts of the things you grew up with. It brings me a sense of peace, so when the record finishes, and my eyes open zoning in on the door across the street, that peace evaporates.

The dark-blue paint is peeling and the garden looks like it’s been left to grow for the whole year, no-one here to tend to it.

I can’t tear my eyes away as my fingertips tingle and my feet itch to go over there. But I don’t, I keep my Converse glued to the carpet.

I came here not only to draw them out but to also ask my dad for help. He was the person who helped me get out of this small town and away from them in the first place, but now I need his help to draw them out instead of escape them.

I finally managed to pull myself away from the window after what felt like minutes but was actually more like an hour. I needed something to take my mind off everything so I buried myself in Netflix on my tablet.

As the sky darkened and I knew the talk with my parents was coming closer, I headed downstairs to distract myself even more.

I’m just pulling out a batch of cookies from the oven when the front door bangs shut and footsteps near.

“I’ve missed that smell in this house,” Dad says as he walks into the kitchen.

I look at him over my shoulder, smiling as he leans against the doorframe.

“I made your favorite,” I tell him.

“Chocolate and pecan?”

I nod in reply and he pushes off the doorframe and plucks one right off the tray. He groans as he takes a bite, his eyes closing. “I’ve missed these.”

The door bangs shut again and Mom rolls her eyes when she comes into the kitchen. “I knew I’d find you in here, Carl.” She picks up a cookie and takes a bite. “I’ve missed these.”

“That’s what Dad said.”

She leans against the counter next to Dad, looking around the kitchen and blowing out a deep breath.

“Who wants takeout?” she asks.

“I’d kill for a pizza,” I say, joining in with them and eating a cookie. They’re delicious fresh out of the oven, all warm and gooey.

Dad orders us a couple of pizzas before him and Mom go upstairs to change out of their uniforms, and I wait in the kitchen, tapping my fingertips against the table. This is where I need to tell them everything that’s been going on. I should have done it sooner, when the first package arrived. I should have told at least Nate or Tris. I’ve been stupid to think I could handle this by myself. It’s escalated to a point where I can’t contain it any longer.

I know I need help, and the two people that will do that without a second thought are my parents.

The doorbell rings as Dad’s footsteps sound down the stairs. He pays the delivery guy and brings it into the kitchen, shouting for Mom as he places the pizza boxes on the table.

We all eat in silence until finally Dad says, his voice gruff, “Tell us what’s going on.”

Swallowing, I shuffle in my chair. “I…” My gaze flits between him and Mom, a lie on the tip of my tongue, but it doesn’t come out, instead I whisper, “I don’t know where to start.”

“How about what’s happened these last six years,” he replies, a frown on his face. “The deal was for you to settle down and then get back in touch. Not to cut contact altogether.”