I finally lift my head a little, watching him from beneath my eyelashes as he strolls over to the boardwalk, patrolling the pier. I always liked Officer Gonzalez. He was always nice, and he still is. I’m grateful that he didn’t ask too many questions. I don’t like questions, and I especially hate being asked if I’m okay, because I’m not.
29
Five Years Earlier
Dad is mad again.
I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, but what I do know is that it’s always my fault. He doesn’t get mad at Jamie. He doesn’t get mad at Chase. He doesn’t get mad at Mom. That means there’s nothing wrong with Dad; there’s something wrong withme. I was the kid he didn’t plan for. The kid he changed his life for. The kid he puts too much pressure on himself for. He has become this monster because of me.
It’s one of the worst nights. I’m already numb, already somewhere else, already praying it will end soon. Mom’s out with her friends tonight. They get together for cocktails once a month. I can see her face through the darkness now, laughing. I like Mom’s smile. It’s bright and contagious. I wish she was here right now; I wish she could help me, but I also want her to keep that smile.
I think something happened at Dad’s work again. I don’t know what, exactly. But I was studying like he would have wanted me to do. I was finishing up my homework while he worked downstairs at the kitchen table, frantically flipping through papers and running his hands back through his hair. I should have had the homework done before I camedownstairs for a drink. But I didn’t. I only had one question left. It would have only taken me a minute.
He’s yelling, he’s cursing, in both English and in Spanish. His green eyes are fierce and terrifying, so I close mine. I weigh nothing to him. I’m thrown across the kitchen, taking down one of the chairs with me, landing in a heap. I’ve landed on my wrist. A brief, sharp pain surges up my arm. But it’s okay. It’s not broken. The pain isn’t bad enough for that.
I’m grabbed from the floor, my body is bruised, and I am aching. His knuckles are rock hard. I can feel them as they smash into the corner of my jaw. He yells something at me, but I don’t register his words. I’m wincing in agony under his tightening hold on me. He shoves me away again. My forehead smacks against the corner of the kitchen table on my way down to the floor. I can feel the warm dampness of blood on my skin, trickling from the fresh cut. I reach up and touch it with my fingertips. I still can’t open my eyes. I’m waiting for his firm hands to grab me again, for his harsh voice to scream at me.
But the only thing I hear is the sound of glass shattering. There’s some more cursing. A groan. A deep breath. Then, footsteps that for oncedon’tgrow louder. They fade away into the hall, leaving behind the deafening slam of the kitchen door.
My breathing is out of sync, fast and ragged, and I slowly peel open my damp, wet eyes. The kitchen is a mess. Dad’s business papers are scattered all over the floor, some torn. Three chairs are knocked over onto their sides. There are shards of glass lying just in front of me.
I retreat from the glass, crawling as far away as I can until I’m pressed against the corner of the room. I hug my knees to my chest, my wrist throbbing, my forehead stinging, my bruises deepening. I’m shaking uncontrollably, and as I bury my face into my knees, I break down in tears.
30
Present Day
I’m relieved when Saturday rolls around. I’ve been a complete nervous wreck the entire week, and I’m refusing to help Declan out today. I need a break from it, to just take some time to clear my head and wonder what the fuck I’m actually doing. It’s even better that Tiffani doesn’t want to hang out today. Apparently, she’s waiting for Rachael to call her over to her house at any moment to help set up for the party tonight. I’m not exactly in the mood for a party, but at least it’s a small one. Or at least Rachael is hoping it is.
It’s just after one and I’m sitting at the kitchen table on my own in a pair of sweatpants, slowly eating my way through the avocado, lettuce, and tomato sandwich I’ve thrown together myself. I’m not that hungry, so I’ve been trying to get through it for the past twenty minutes. I haven’t even bothered to turn on the TV. I’m just staring blankly through the glass of the patio doors, my eyes fixed on nothing in particular outside in the backyard.
I already know it’s going to be one ofthosedays. I’m already feeling pretty low, but for no reason in particular. It’ll pass though. Eventually. I’ll mope around for a few hours, question my existence, and then I’llbe laughing at that party tonight as though I’m the happiest guy in the room.
I release the sigh I’ve been holding and drop my eyes down to my plate, pushing it away from me. I don’t really like being alone all that much, not when I feel like this.
“Not hungry?” Mom asks as she walks into the kitchen. She gives me a small, warm smile just like she always does, and I’m so glad she does, because I really need it right now.
“Not really,” I mumble with a hopeless shrug. I prop my elbow up on the table and rest my chin on my palm, my gaze following Mom as she grabs my plate and carries it away.
“We’re taking your brothers to the Dodgers game tonight,” she casually muses over her shoulder. She tips the remainder of my food into the trash, then slides the plate into the dishwasher. As she turns around to face me again, she leans back against the countertop. Her smile has become a knowing one. “So wherever you end up sneaking out to tonight, look after yourself. Nothing stupid, Tyler.” The way she arches her eyebrow at me is stern, and I know what she means. No drinking, no smoking, no staying out all night.
I frown back at her and shift my attention back to the yard. The sun is shining, its rays bouncing off the pool water, but I find it easy to focus on. I don’t want to disappoint her tonight, though I know I will.
“Tyler,” Mom says quietly, her tone different all of a sudden. Warily, she sits down next to me, her eyebrows pinching with worry. I don’t like it when she looks at me like that. My heartbeat races that tiny bit faster as my eyes meet hers. “I found something last night,” she murmurs, her voice breaking. She pulls something from her pocket and softly sets it down in front of me. Her blue eyes dilate with theheartache she is feeling, and she presses one hand to her chest, the other on my back. “We must have missed it.”
I inhale deeply, exhale slowly. She gives me an encouraging nod, and then I glance down at the object she’s placed in front of me. It’s a photograph. A photo from forever ago. A photo of Dad and me. My chest tightens and I stare down at the memory in front of me as Mom soothingly rubs my back. She stays silent, giving me time to process it.
In the photograph, we’re at the pier on the boardwalk. It’s just getting dark, the sky a mixture of blue and pink streaks as the sun dips below the ocean behind us. I’m young, maybe six or seven, and I’m grabbing onto Dad’s arm, huddled in close to him. Dad’s young too, and as I look at him now, his smile beaming back at me and his green eyes full of warmth, I realize that wearesimilar. The older I get, the more I see it. Our eyes are identical. We have the same tanned skin. The same dark hair and thick eyebrows. The same damn jawline. We were both happy back then. The bad days hadn’t started yet. I can still remember the first time Dad hit me. I was eight, and I was confused, and he told me it would never happen again, and I believed him.
I don’t realize my fists are clenched under the table until Mom places her hand over mine. She massages my skin with her thumb until slowly, I relax my hands. She doesn’t like it when I get mad, but she knows that sometimes I can’t control it. That’s another similarity that Dad and I share: our short temper.
“Do what makes you feel better,” Mom whispers, and she slides something into my hand and closes my fingers around it. When I look at her, feeling more somber than angry, she gives me a small, sad smile. She stands up and places her hand on my shoulder, kisses my temple, and then walks away, giving me the space I need.
I glance down and open my hand. In my palm, there’s a lighter.
When I was fifteen, my rage had been manifesting for three years and it had become so unbearable that I needed to find a release that was more satisfying than just getting high. I wanted to wipe away all of the memories I had of Dad, even the good ones. I wanted him completely out of my life. Mom would have done anything to make me feel better. She still would. That’s why we went up into the attic together and pulled out all of the old photo albums from my childhood. As much as it hurt her, she let me set up a fire in our backyard and burn all of the photos of Dad and me. It felt good at the time, but even that wasn’t enough to let me move on. I still think about him every day.
I get to my feet and grab the photograph in front of me. I take the lighter with me too as I walk over to the patio doors, sliding them open and stepping outside into the warm, fresh air. The slight breeze feels nice and refreshing. I sit down on the lawn by the edge of the pool and I pull my knees up to my chest, holding up the photograph again and dangling it from my fingertips.
