“My mom will probably be home sometime tomorrow afternoon.”
He raises an eyebrow a fraction, enough to let me know that he realizes I didn’t mention my father. He doesn’t say anything about it though. “You’re here alone tonight?”
I tuck my hair behind my ear, feeling a little vulnerable. “Yeah, I usually am.”
“That explains the baseball bat.”
“Oh yeah. I hoped you’d forgotten about that.” I blush.
“You’ll be okay here by yourself?”
“Is someone concerned?” I joke, trying not to think too hard about if that means Aiden actually cares about me.
“You said your mom’s rarely home. Where’s your dad?” he asks.
Of course he’d ask. I left a loose string when I didn’t mention my dad, and Aiden’s going to pull at each one until he unravels the secrets of my life.
I don’t know if it’s the progress we made today as friends, or his openness with me when he said he wanted to get out of this town, or maybe it’s the fact that I know he doesn’t apologize for anything, but something compelled me to tell him the truth.
“Dead.”
I guess that was one of his theories because he doesn’t look that surprised. He surprises me, however, when he replies solemnly, “My mom too.”
I figured he wouldn’t appreciate an apology, so I didn’t give him one. I’m just surprised he’s being open with me. Aiden’s the poster child for closed-off, impassive expressions, and I can’t believe he’s letting me into his life.
“When?”
“When I was ten. Cancer. You?”
“Just over a year ago. Drunk driver.” I look away.
He’s silent for a moment, then, “Did they catch the guy?”
Again, I don’t know what’s compelling me to be so open and honest with Aiden tonight, but it still doesn’t deter me from looking him straight in his intuitive gray eyes. “He was the drunk driver.”
I’ve never told anyone before. I didn’t tell any of my other friends from the other towns. I’ve always tried not to get too close to them in case I screwed up and we had to move again. Maybe I’m tired of distancing myself from people I know I could trust. Maybe I’m tired of lying for the past year. Maybe I just need someone to talk to, since I never had time to grieve properly after everything happened. Whatever it is, it makes me look Aiden straight in his eyes and say for the first time out loud the truth about my father.
He shocks me when he steps closer to me, his eyes revealing his concern. “What happened?” he asks softly, a stark contrast with his normally harsh tone.
“I was there.”
I look away, eyes watering a little as I remember that awful night.
I was at the mall and had missed my bus, the last one of the night. My mom was attending on an overnight flight to Italy, trying to stay out of the house for as long as she could. Trying to run away from her problems as usual by throwing herself into her work. Flights away from her crumbling marriage and suffocating husband—a husband who turned to alcohol instead of facing the reality of his failing marriage. My parents had been drifting apart for as long as I could remember. They never touched each other. They never ate together. There was tension when they were in the house together. Years of neglect on my dad’s part, maybe, or my mom finally realizing they married way too young—they never told me, but they didn’t have to, I knew their relationship was a mess. People should trust their kids more—they see more than they reveal.
The luminescence from the moon painted the deserted parking lot in an eerie glow as I sat on the curb waiting for my dad. It was an hour since I’d called him to come and get me, and I was growing more and more unsettled. I shifted uncomfortably, cursing myself, promising that if he showed up I wouldn’t be late for anything ever again, like I was for that damn bus. I probably could’ve walked home by the time my dad’s SUV pulled up beside the curb, but it was late, and dark, and he’d never not shown up before.
Already agitated and unsettled by my creepy surroundings, I hopped in the car without a second thought, and my dad practically took off before I even closed the door. The smell hit me immediately. Still, I clicked in my seat belt and turned to my father, noting how he was swaying slightly and squinting as if he couldn’t see straight.
I knew he was angry. He never really used to drink before he and my mom started arguing so much, so I’d never known his drunk personality. But when the fights had gotten louder and more frequent, and he’d been drinking more often than not, I’d come to learn that he was an angry drunk.
What the fuck, kid? Why’d I have to get you? Can’t you take the fucking bus like every other normal fucking kid?
Then I knew he was drunk—other than the slurring, that was the only time he ever called me kid.
He was gripping the steering wheel tightly as he let his anger fuel him, already going thirty over the speed limit.
Of course not. You fucked up the bus schedule just like you always fuck everything up!