“You don’t waste any time, do you?” he gripes, moving things out of the way, appearing to look for something else. “Everything’s rearranged.”
“Dad—”
Noah tries to step in, but his father just stands up straight and looks at his son.
“And where the hell did you go?” Jake asks.
He had left earlier. Was he not supposed to?
But Noah’s jaw just tenses, and instead of answering, he shakes his head and leaves. I don’t know if I envy Noah or what. He doesn’t get along with his father, either, but at least he has his attention.
I drop my eyes and tap the iPad screen, closing out YouTube and the refrigerator repair video I used.
“Look,” Jake says, turned toward me and his voice lower now. “Don’t go above and beyond, okay? We run a well-oiled machine here, so just do what I ask. Reorganizing the refrigerator or cabinets or decorating—anything like that—is not necessary. Or really appreciated, to be honest. If you need ideas for chores, I can give you plenty.”
I nod.
And I set the tools on the counter and leave the kitchen.
That night—hours into a thunderstorm that had been raging since after dinner—I snap awake, every muscle in my body tight and hot. I clench the sheets at my side, my chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, and sweat dripping down my neck.
I gasp, trying to breathe, but I can’t fucking move. I try to swallow, but it takes four times before I’m able to wet my dry throat.
I roll my eyes around the room, fear lingering in my brain, but I’m not sure why as I take inventory of my surroundings.
The room is dark, the storm still rocking against my windows, and I hear the drops pummel the deck outside my room.
Slowly, I stretch out my fingers, prying my hands off the sheets, and I sit up, wincing at the ache in my shoulders and neck from being locked up too long.
Did I dream? I close my eyes, the tears I don’t remember crying seeping out and joining the ones already wetting my face.
I don’t remember anything, but I must’ve been crying or screaming, because my throat is burning and my knuckles ache from clenching my fists. I quickly glance at my door, relieved to see it’s still closed. Thank God I wasn’t loud enough to wake anyone.
I throw off the covers and walk to the chest of drawers to retrieve my phone.
When I was a kid, I had terrible episodes of screaming and crying—absolute midnight mania—where I’d wake up and carry on, but I was completely asleep. They said it was night terrors, and when it was over—when Mirai or whatever nanny soothed me back to the sleep—I never remembered anything. I only knew it happened, because my muscles would be drained, my throat would be dry, and I’d wake up with my eyes burning from the tears.
I pick up my phone and turn it on.
1:15 a.m. Tears prick my throat, but I push them down.
It was always somewhere around 1:15 a.m. my parents had said. Some kind of internal clock thing.
But my night terrors ended. I haven’t had one since…fourth grade, maybe?
I drop my phone back onto the dresser, propping my elbows on top and holding my head in my hands.
I’m an adult. I’m alone.
I glance at the door again. I don’t want them to hear me screaming like some nutcase.
I finally notice a sting on my arm and look down to see three, red half-moons on my forearm, and I instantly know what they are, the memory coming back like it was yesterday.
I’d clawed myself in my sleep.
The bag of candy still sits on my dresser, and I shoot out my arm, swiping the bag off the dresser and into the garbage can off to the side. What the hell was I doing in my sleep? How could I not wake up? What happens if I’m alone in L.A. or when I go off to college, and I have to have a roommate?
I shouldn’t be alone.