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 playingMadden NFLon 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 midgame. 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 lying 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 thedarkness 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 stairs 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’twantDad 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 hisvoice. 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 are 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, noddingover to my bed. “I’ve had the worst couple of days, and this is thelastthing 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 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 like 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.
Shestillisn’t home.
I’m getting sort of concerned too, I guess. I’m to blame because I was the fucking idiot who brought her 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?”
