“Because I need to, okay?” I yell at her. It’s the only answer I can give, and I quickly glance around us to make sure there’s no one listening. With the music so loud, our yelling is almost unnoticeable.
“You don’t need to,” she says, lowering her voice. Her eyes soften with disappointment. “You want to.”
She’s never, ever going to fucking get it. No one is ever going to understand me. She thinks I want to throw my life away like this? She thinks I enjoy having to resort to this shit? I don’t have a choice! It’s the only way I can keep my mind in check, to feel some damn peace in my life for once. I take a deep breath and exhale, running a hand through my hair. “You don’t get it,” I whisper. I feel so weak all of a sudden that I can’t even speak. I feel so deflated, like all of my energy has just evaporated. For the first time, I think Eden may have just defeated me.
Numbly, I nudge her out of the way, staring into space as I swing open the door to the backyard. I slam it shut after me, leaving Eden behind inside, and I throw my head back to the sky, my eyes squeezed shut, and I let out this weird, crazed sort of guttural groan.
When I tilt my head back down and open my eyes, I realize I’m not alone. Declan’s shoving a wad of cash into his pocket as he furrows his eyebrows at me. Liam’s slouched back in a deck chair, his feet up on the patio table with a joint between his lips, his bloodshot eyes fixated on me.
“What the fuck?” Kaleb says, cracking up with laughter.
“Hey, man,” I hear someone say from my left, and as I turn around, I catch sight of Warren approaching. In the space of a single second, I see him smirk, right before he slams his fist into the corner of my jaw.
23
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
Mom lets us stay up late. It’s Saturday and Dad isn’t home yet, so she’s letting us stay up and wait for him. Jamie and Chase are in my room, the lights off, our eyes sore from the glare of my TV. We’re playing Madden NFL on the PlayStation 2 that we got for Christmas last year to share, though I like to think that it’s mostly mine, because Chase barely remembers that it exists and Jamie sucks at every game he tries to play. I haven’t lost once tonight, and we’ve been playing for over an hour.
“Is it true that there’s a PlayStation 3 coming out?” Jamie asks mid-game. I think he’s giving up at this point, because I can sense him looking at me rather than at the screen.
“Yeah. In November,” I tell him with a shrug. On the screen, my team scores a touchdown. My sixth already within this game alone. We’re sprawled out on our stomachs on my bedroom floor, suffering carpet burn on our elbows, and Chase is laying on my bed half asleep.
“Really?” Chase says, growing alert. He sits up, excitement capturing his expression. “Will Santa bring us one?”
Jamie snorts from beside me, rolling his blue eyes, and in the darkness I whack his arm and fire him a threatening glance. “I don’t know, Chase,” I say, pausing the game and pushing myself up from the floor. “Add it to your list and you’ll find out.”
At that exact moment, Mom’s voice echoes up the staircase as she cheerfully calls out, “Boys! Your dad’s home!”
Jamie throws the console controller halfway across my room and springs to his feet while Chase leaps off my bed. The two of them run straight out of my room, wide grins on their faces, and I listen to the sound of their footsteps on the stairs as they race to greet Dad. For a very, very split second, I consider joining them. But then I remember that I don’t want Dad here, and I definitely don’t want to rush downstairs to give him a hug.
I get up, close my bedroom door, then return to my position on the floor and sit down cross-legged in front of the TV again. I end the current game and begin a new single-player one, increasing the volume and focusing my attention solely on the screen. My three days of guaranteed safety are over, and I know Dad hates it when I play video games too much, so I’m taking advantage of the freedom while I can.
Ten minutes pass and I haven’t heard any of the commotion downstairs. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear his voice. But then my door opens and the sound of it sends a shiver down my spine.
“You know, Tyler, it’s considered rude not to come and see your dad after he’s been gone for three days,” he states, and I don’t even pause the game as I glance up from the floor. Dad is standing in the doorway, his hand resting on my door handle, and he is narrowing his eyes down at me. Suddenly, he pushes my door open fully and flicks on the light. “And why the hell are you playing this?” he demands, storming into the room.
My eyes hurt from the sudden brightness and I squint at Dad as he strides toward me, snatching the controller straight out of my hand. “Mom said we could,” I tell him, but there’s no point. He doesn’t listen to me anyway.
“Have you been playing this the entire time I’ve been gone?” he questions, shaking the controller in front of me, his free hand already balled into a fist. “You have, haven’t you?”
“No, only tonight,” I splutter, flinching at the abruptness of his voice. How is it possible that I can make him so angry so quickly? What’s wrong with me? I scramble up onto my feet and hold my hands up in surrender. “I swear, Dad. All my homework is done . . . I’ve already studied this morning!”
Dad throws the controller straight back at me and it hurls against my shoulder and swipes the edge of my jaw despite my efforts to dodge it. Furious so suddenly, he turns to the TV and reaches around the back of it, yanking out wires. My heart is beating so fast it hurts as the fear begins to rise through me. Dad is so unpredictable when he’s angry, so I find myself defensively taking several steps back.
He grabs the PlayStation 2 and tucks it under his arm, wires dangling to the floor, and he fixes me with one of those disapproving glares that I hate so much. It makes me feel guilty, and I really don’t know why. I haven’t done anything wrong. Or have I? I was only having some fun.
“You don’t get to play this anymore,” Dad tells me through gritted teeth. There’s several feet between us, but I wish there were more. “Now get to bed, Tyler. Right now.” He turns around and heads back to the door with the console still in hand, and I don’t know where he’s taking it or why he’s so mad. He glances over his shoulder before he leaves and when he sees that I haven’t moved an inch, he almost throws the console at me, too. “Don’t fucking test me,” he growls, nodding over to my bed. “I’ve had the worst couple of days and this is the last thing I need.”
He doesn’t need to tell me a third time. I learned the hard way what happens if it comes to that. My eyes feel damp as I quickly turn around and crawl into my bed, pulling my comforter over me. I lie on my back, trembling slightly, and I watch him over the edge of my comforter as he turns back to the door, switching off the light again. “Dad,” I whisper. I really don’t know what I’ve done wrong, so I can’t help it. I’m crying. “I’m sorry.”
I’m sorry that I make him so mad. I’m sorry that I can never be good enough. I’m sorry that I can’t make him happy the way Mom does, the way Jamie does, the way Chase does. I’m sorry for letting him down.
Dad pauses in the hall, but he doesn’t turn around. His shoulders rise and fall in sync with his breathing, and slowly, he shakes his head. Right before he pulls my door shut behind him, I hear him murmur, “It’s not enough.”
I squeeze my eyes shut in the dark silence of my room, my lips quivering as I cry even harder.
His apologies are never enough either.
24
PRESENT DAY
I’m slouched across the couch in the living room, staring at a random spot in the ceiling, trying to fight the dizziness I’m feeling. My head feels heavy, my chest feels tight, but I always get this way during a comedown. Chase is sitting cross-legged on the floor as he stares up at the TV, glued to his Sunday morning kids’ shows, and the volume is low enough to serve as distant background noise. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, hold it, then release. God, I feel sick.
Last night was a mess. I
remember Warren flooring me in a single punch—and my jaw still aches enough to prove it—and everything else after that is a blur. I do know I was stoned on more than just weed. That’s why I feel so shit this morning. I also remember Dave still being awake when I came home in the middle of the night, not because he was worried about me, but because he was worried about Eden. She hadn’t come home.
She still isn’t home.
I’m getting sort of concerned too, I guess. I’m to blame, because I was the fucking idiot who brought her out to that party in the first place. And then I stormed outside and left her. In hindsight, that was a bad move. Eden wouldn’t have known anyone. Did she try to walk home? Get lost en route? Is she lying in a ditch somewhere? Shit. If I had her number, I would call her, though I doubt she would answer. Dave’s already called like a million times to no avail, and he’s been pacing the house all morning. He says he’s waiting until noon before he takes action, whatever the hell that means. He’d kill me if he knew it’s my fault she’s not here.
I press my hands over my face, my eyes still squeezed tightly shut. I haven’t had enough sleep. I’m exhausted.
“Tyler,” I hear Mom say as she enters the living room, her voice quiet, soft. I drop my hands and open my eyes, glancing up at her. She seems wary as she sits down on the arm of the couch across from me. As she folds her arms across her chest, she gives me a smile, but it’s not a happy one. “Just checking in. Has it been a bad week?”
Mom always does this. At least once a week, she’ll check up on me in this serious sort of manner, like she’s my own personal therapist. She likes to check up on my mental state, and usually I understate everything in order to protect her. If I told her the complete truth, then most weeks she’d have a complete breakdown. How do I tell my mom that I wouldn’t care if I died tomorrow? How do I tell her that I hate myself, that my life is all over the place, that I’m not really sure how to make any of it better? I can’t. So I just shrug and divert my gaze back to the ceiling. “It’s been worse,” I say. I would rather lie and keep her happy than tell her the truth and break her heart.
She exhales and keeps quiet for a moment. I can feel her blue eyes studying me. “Are you sure? It’s seemed like you’ve had a pretty bad week to me, Tyler. You’ve been acting out more than usual. What’s going on?” She reaches over and angles my chin toward her, forcing me to meet her eyes again. She looks desperate. Afraid, even, like she doesn’t want to hear the answer. “Talk to me.”
“I don’t know, Mom,” I tell her. I do know, though, and she does too. I’m like this because of Dad. I wish I was strong enough to move on, to not let it affect me as much as it has, but I think I’m forever going to be this way. I’m always going to be angry, I’m always going to be insecure, I’m always going to be fucked up. I know deep down that I should try harder, I should quit all of these distractions, I should get help. But I just don’t know where to begin. The only peace of mind I have is knowing that I’m already at rock bottom and things can’t possibly get any worse. Only better, I guess. One day.
Mom glances over at Chase. He’s so invested in the TV that he doesn’t even notice us talking. Her gaze meets mine again and she frowns as the corner of her eyes being to crinkle. “Please don’t push me away, Tyler,” she begs in a mere whisper. “I’m always going to be on your side. I understand why you act the way you do, but I hate it. There’s other ways to deal with this than to rebel against everything. You were such a happy kid . . .” She stops herself and closes her eyes, pressing a hand to her mouth as she chokes up.
“Yeah, until you-know-who made me his personal punching bag,” I mutter as I sit up. Chase is in the room, so I have to watch my words. He can’t ever find out. Mom shakes her head, her eyes still closed, my reminder tearing her apart. But it’s the truth, and that’s what she wants. “Do you expect me to be happy, Mom?” I gently ask her, my tone solemn. “After everything?”
“No,” she whispers, opening her eyes to look at me. They are full of so much remorse, so much guilt. “But I just desperately wish you could be.”
My chest tightens. I hate that I can’t give her that, that I’m letting her down. I lower my head and drop my eyes to the floor. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you dare say sorry, Tyler,” she abruptly cuts in, dropping straight down onto her knees so that she can look up at me. She places her hand on my knee and her eyes are doing that thing again where they flood with an agonizing pain that only we can understand. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“You always say sorry too,” I whisper, my voice weak. Mom does that to me. I love that she cares so much, that she’s so protective, but I feel the exact same way about her. I hate it when she says sorry for what Dad did, because it was his mistake, not hers. I hate it whenever I see the flash of guilt in her eyes, because I wish she didn’t blame herself. She thinks she’s a bad mom for not noticing the abuse I was suffering for years, but I fought hard back then to make sure she didn’t suspect anything.
“That’s because I do have something to be sorry for,” she murmurs, then hangs her head low as she blinks at the floor. “I should have been there for you, Tyler. I should have … I should have noticed. You’re my son.” Her eyes brim with tears and her lower lip quivers as she whispers, “How didn’t I see it? How didn’t I see it in your eyes that you were hurting?” But she’s not talking to me. No, she’s questioning herself, and I wish she wouldn’t.
I grasp her hand on my knee. “Stop. Please,” I say, hunching forward and looking down at her on the floor in front of me. It breaks me when she gets like this, and my heart is beating a little too fast. It’s hypocritical of me to expect her to move on when I can’t even move on myself.
“Let me do something,” Mom begs, interlocking our hands. She squeezes tightly as though she’s afraid to ever let go. “Let me get you help. I’ll find you the best therapist in Los Angeles. Please, Tyler, just give it a shot.”
“I can’t,” I say, shaking my head fast. We have this discussion a lot, but my answer always remain the same. “I’m not ready to talk about it yet.” I can almost sense Mom’s heart sinking in her chest. She has been fighting for me to seek therapy for years now, and I know it would be for the best, but I just can’t bring myself to open up to anyone yet. I squeeze Mom’s hand back. “But I will one day,” I add, and her gaze lights up through the tears. “I promise I will. Just not yet.”
“Okay, Tyler,” she breathes. “I love you, okay?” I nod, and she clasps my face in her hands and kisses the top of my head before reluctantly leaving the room.
I blow out a long breath of air and release the pressure in my chest as I sit back. My gaze rests on the window, staring out onto the street, and that’s when I notice Jake’s car parked up outside. I get to my feet and walk over to the window, peering through the blinds more carefully, and . . . No. No way.
Eden gets out of the car. She closes it, turns toward the house and pulls her hood up. She’s still wearing last night’s clothes. Has she been with Jake the entire time? What the hell? That asshole.
“Hey! Eden’s back!” Chase says, finally looking up from the TV.
“Yeah, I can see that,” I mumble, grinding my teeth together. Now she’s in trouble with not only Dave, but me too. I told her to stay away from Jake. Is she naive? She has to be. That, or she’s an idiot, which I’ve already decided she isn’t.
As she heads across the lawn, I quickly stride out of the living room, down the hall, and swing open the front door to meet her. She’s already standing on the other side of the threshold, mouth a small “o” with surprise, and I reach for her arm and pull her quickly inside.
“Um,” Eden says, her voice groggy, like she’s half asleep. As I shut the front door again, she takes a step back from me.
“You’re kidding,” I say as I turn back to face her. Her hair that was up last night is now a tangled, lopsided heap with loose strands sticking out from all over the place. There’s still the smudge of mascara u
nder her eyes. Where did she even sleep? Has she slept? Or has she been up all night making out with Jake Maxwell in the back of his car? Fuck. I hope not. “Right? You’ve got to be kidding.”
Eden exhales and tugs on the drawstrings of her hoodie, staring at me in silence. “I could say the same to you,” she finally says, but it’s not the reply I was looking for. I was hoping for some reassurance that she isn’t under Jake’s spell. She shoves her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie and tilts her head to one side. “You took me to a party with all your pothead friends and crackhead losers. Are you insane?”
“Shhh. Keep your voice down,” I order, holding up a finger to her. I glance down the hall to the kitchen where our parents are.
“Sorry,” Eden says, though she doesn’t even bother lowering her voice. She presses her lips together, her gaze challenging. Her stance is defensive and her tone is bitter. I took her to that party and then got into a heated argument with her. Yet again, she saw a flash of my absolute worst side, the side of me that I just can’t control. “I forgot your mom has no idea about how pathetic her son is.”
I wish she’d stop saying that word. Pathetic. I know I am, but hearing her say it is a harsh reminder. It’s like she can tell it gets to me, like she knows it hurts to hear. That’s why she keeps saying it. Not because it’s a fact, but because it’s the one thing she can use against me. My own damn weakness. It’s almost cruel of her, so I don’t feel guilty when I yell out, “Dave! Eden’s home.” I even throw in a smile for good measure.
Eden parts her lips, her eyes widening. “Seriously?”
“Face the consequences,” I say, taunting her. Face the consequences for sneaking around all night with Jake fucking Maxwell.
“Your consequences,” she snaps back. She is growing more and more aggravated each second. It’s like I make her blood boil. “You forced me to go to that party.”
“Yet I remember you agreeing to it.”