It’s a short drive, but it feels long—every second drawn out to its fullest. By the time I’m close, I’m uncomfortably cold and I can’t feel my fingertips anymore.
And when I turn down the long driveway and the house comes into view, my heart fucking stops in my chest. I slam the brakes on, and the car grinds to a halt, dust billowing up around me.
Fucking hell.
A light-blue pickup truck sits in front of the house.Patrick’slight-blue pickup truck.
My mom’s car isn’t there.
A pain rips through my head, and I close my eyes and force myself to breathe.
I was scared enough coming here knowing I was going to have to faceher. The prospect of facinghim, though...
My throat feels so tight, like it’s closing on me, and I choke out a sob as I force my eyes back open and stare toward the house.
Maybe she’s on her way home now. Maybe she just got held up at work for a bit—that used to happen all the time, after all. That’s it. It has to be.
Any minute, she’ll come down the driveway behind me. Then we can just exchange money for car title in the driveway, even. I won’t have to step foot in the house withhim.
I sit there, my foot still pressed hard into the brake pedal, my car shuddering as the engine adjusts and idles. Several minutes pass. Then several more. And I know she’s not coming. Something deep down inside tells me that.
It’s intentional, too. I’m not sure how I know, but I know.
My hands regrip the steering wheel, and I lift my eyes back to the house. With a nauseating swoop of my stomach, I see the curtains covering the front windows move. I can’t see inside. I can’t see him. But I canfeelthat he’s watching me.
I’m going to vomit.
Holding tightly to the steering wheel, I jerk my foot off the brake, and the car lurches forward. I look ahead now, straight to the end of the driveway, and I force a breath and then another. I’m nearly hyperventilating by the time I park, and I shut off the engine, shove my keys into my pocket, and thrust the door open, desperate for fresh air.
But the heat outside doesn’t feel fresh, and so I’m left gasping for breath as I stumble to my feet and close the car door behind me.
Fuck.
I move, though I’m not sure how. The numbness in my fingers is starting to work its way up my arms, and the stabbing pain in myhead is shooting down my neck and back now.
This isn’t right.
I shouldn’t be here.
My feet keep moving until I reach the porch, then my hand lifts up to knock, even though I’m screaming silently at myself tonotfucking knock. I should turn around and leave. I should meet my mom in some public place. Not meet Patrick here. Alone.
This is a fucking bad idea.
I knock anyway, and there’s an immediate noise from inside the house. Something slamming. Then footsteps. Heavy, angry footsteps coming toward me. I shiver and pitch backward, almost tripping over my own feet.
Then he’s there, standing in the open doorway, a furious scowl on his face, his eyes glaring at me. There’s rage in them. Rage I can feel. And it’s all directedatme.
A ghost pain jolts through me, my shoulder feels like I’m being ripped backwards, and all the air leaves my lungs as though he’s slammed me back into a wall.
He hasn’t moved, but his scowl turns into a sneer, and the numbness returns to my fingers.
“You little shit. I can’t believe you came. Cind said you’d be by.”
He’s obviously been drinking. The smell of alcohol wafts off of him, sour as it hits my nose. I stumble back another step, and he just laughs cruelly as I grasp the porch railing.
“What’s the matter, you scared of me or somethin’?” he taunts, shaking his head, and then lets out a malicious laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m not fucking stupid enough to make the same mistake twice.” I’m not entirely sure what he means, but then he turns and motions for me to follow him into the house. “Let’s get this over with.”
I try, but I can’t move from my spot. My brain is screamingabsolutely fucking not, and I’m shaking and lightheaded. I onlybarely manage to push myself away from the railing and take a step toward the front door after another few seconds.
