13
Skye
Kevin has been acting weird since therapy. He hasn’t left the couch since yesterday. I walk into the living room and sit down on the chair.
“Hey.”
He doesn’t acknowledge me. His eyes are locked on the blank TV screen. An empty glass rests on the floor beside the couch. I walk over to him and place my fingers on his shoulder. He jumps, startling at my touch as if he’s been lost in some world other than this one.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“No.” He sighs. “Can you get me another drink?”
I shake my head at him. “I think you’ve had enough to drink.”
He reaches down, grabs the glass, and throws it at the wall. It shatters and sends glass skittering across the hardwood. The sounds are too familiar, too haunting for me. I cover my mouth and hold back a scream. My heart races as panic creeps up and squeezes my neck. I run toward my room, barely able to suck in each breath.
I grab a bottle of vodka I hid under the bed, twist off the cap, and drink from it directly. The alcohol burns my throat, but I keep chugging it. I try to wash away the panicked feeling squeezing at my lungs.
My phone vibrates.
Mom: You need to come home, Skye.
Not a chance. She only texts me when he hurts her—when she’s the only punching bag left in the house. I refuse to let anyone hurt me again . . . except myself. I reserve the right to cause myself pain. It doesn’t hurt anyone else.
There’s a knock on the door. I cap the vodka and shove it under the bed. Kevin opens the door and walks in. The razor catches a glint of light on the table beside me, and I knock it to the floor before he sees it.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“What’s wrong with you?”
He recoils from my words. “More than I can begin to explain. I could ask the same about you, though.”
My lip trembles at his words.
“Have you eaten?” he asks.
No.“Yeah.”
“When?”
“Oh my god, you aren’t my father. Stop.”
He’s definitely not my father. Kevin took his anger out on a glass. My father took his anger out on me.
Kevin shrugs. “Sorry for giving a shit.” His dark eyes lock on me, and his chest rises heavily, as if he’s fighting back his emotions.
It’s fine. At least one of us can control themselves, and the new cuts on my hip show that it isn’t me. I fidget, letting the waistband of my sweatpants rub against them.
“Can we go for a walk or something?” I ask. I feel cooped up. There’s nothing to see out the window here except the drab brick of more buildings. It’s stifling.
“I guess.”
Kevin lifts his shirt over his head. His taut stomach muscles disappear beneath the fabric of a clean shirt. He grabs a sweater from his closet and tosses it at me. I slip it on.
We get in the car and drive. I watch him use the stick to switch gears.
“Why don’t you have an automatic? Who drives these anymore?”
Kevin’s lips form a thin line. He grips the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white.
“It’s not a big deal. I was just curious,” I tell him, but his posture doesn’t relax. My hand reaches for a gleam of silver in his cup holder, and I lift a metal chain. Tags rattle against each other. “Dog tags?”
Kevin grabs the chain and rips it from my grasp. “Don’t touch my stuff.”
Everything I do seems to trigger him. I wish he’d tell me why.
We drive in silence. My leg shakes, rubbing my pants along the cuts with every movement.
“I’m sorry, Skye.” He sits back with a huff as we pull into a park. “Some of the things you said remind me of someone.”
I meet his gaze and gnaw at the inside of my cheek. His ex? It has to be his ex.
“Who?” I ask, trying to prod him for more information about her.
“Don’t ask me that. Don’t ever ask me that.”
“Okay, fine.”
I get out of the car, slam the door, and start down the path. He catches up to me as I shove my hands into the front pocket of his hoodie. The fabric warms my cold skin. He’s only wearing his damn T-shirt.
“Is this your only sweater?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s fine. It’s hardly cold out. I used to run through worse than this for training.”
“Training?”
“Military.”
“Oh yeah. You said that in group. Two tours, right?”
“Yup. The worst and best days of my life.” Kevin blows air from his lips and sends out a puff of steam. His skin is so tanned, even in spring. I’m some shade of pale, year-round.
“Why did you stop?”
“Serving? I didn’t have a choice.”
I blink at him.
He shakes his head. “PTSD cut my career short.”
“I’m sor—”
Kevin inhales. “It’s fine. I’m living the dream now, clearly.”
We walk in silence.