I dropped my bag by the stairs and didn’t bother calling out. My older brother’s shoes were gone, which meant he was too. Probably with his friends or his girlfriend or whoever was keeping him sane lately. It was smart of him to stay gone, but it felt as if his friends saw more of him than I did.
I went into the kitchen for a soda and found my mom scrubbing the same spot on the counter, over and over. Her eyes didn’t move from it, even when I walked in.
“You’re late,” she said. Her voice was flat and held no trace of warmth.
“I was at practice,” I muttered, grabbing a can from the fridge. “I told you.”
She didn’t answer, just kept scrubbing, as if she could just clean hard enough, she’d erase whatever made her so angry all the time.
I slipped out before she could think of something to throw at me with her words.
That’s how it was in our house. Nobody hurt you with hands and fists; they used sharp insults and barbed wordsinstead. Silence and isolation were weapons that cut deeper than words ever could, and I’d learned to live with the wounds.
Upstairs, I shut my bedroom door and kicked off my shoes. My room used to feel protected, the only safe spot in the house. Now, it had become a holding cell. The lightbulb in the ceiling flickered when I turned it on. I sat on the edge of my bed and cracked open the soda. It had no taste, just cold sugar and fizz.
I thought about Tru’s mom humming while she cooked; even the onions sizzling in the pan deserved a soundtrack. About Tru handing me the controller like it was a coveted treasure, no questions, no conditions—just here, what’s mine is yours. About that Charizard card in its perfect sleeve, and the way he turned it over carefully and said he liked the art, not the value.
I didn’t know people like that were real. People who could fill a room without sucking the air out of it. People who didn’t keep score. Who just... let you be near them without asking for anything back. No proving yourself, no posturing. Just this quiet kind of belonging that felt so rare, I didn’t trust it at first.
It was standing in sunlight after you’ve been cold for so long you forgot what warm felt like. And I didn’t know whether to step closer or run before I ruined it.
I didn’t hear my dad come home until his voice startled me.
“You alive up here?”
I jumped and sat up straighter as the door creaked open. He didn’t knock. He never did. It was my father’s house, and he paid the bills, which meant he owned everything and everyone under his roof, as he liked to remind us.
I thought about whether Ms. Jameson would have knockedfirst, but thinking back, Tru hadn’t shut his bedroom door. He’d left it wide open, maybe because he had no one to hide from.
My dad leaned against the frame in his white button-down, sleeves rolled up, his tie like a noose half-undone.
“I’ve barely seen you this summer,” he said. “Where’ve you been hiding?”
I shrugged. “Soccer practice. Hanging out.”
“Hanging out with who?”
“Just… a friend down the street.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Isn’t that the boy on your team?” I nodded. “And what are they like? What do his parents do for a living?”
That was always it with him. Job titles. Last names. Country club status.
I swallowed my irritation. “It’s just my buddy Tru,” I said. “And his mom.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Tru? Interesting name.”
I picked at the hangnail on my thumb, avoiding his eyes. “It’s short for Truen.”
“And she lives there alone?”
“Yeah,” I said, the word sticking in my mouth.
“Huh.” He straightened, cracking his neck like he always did before switching gears. “Well, I guess I’ll have to make it a point to introduce myself. It would be strange if my son spent more time there than here, and I don’t even know her name.”
Something twisted in my chest.
I didn’t want him to go over there. I didn’t want him shaking hands with Tru’s mom and smiling that lawyer smile that made people think he was decent. I didn’t want him settingfoot in that house, tracking in whatever clung to me from this place.
