My stomach growls. I haven't eaten anything since a granola bar at lunch—my body too knotted with anxiety to register hunger until now. The Thai food Margot mentioned should still be in the fridge.
I heat up a container of pad thai and take it to the kitchen island, pulling out my tattered notebook while I eat. Writing always helps. Gets the chaos out of my head and onto paper where I can look at it, analyze it, pretend I have any control over what's happening to me.
Thursday was a disaster, I write. They all smelled me. They all LOOKED at me. And I ran like a—
The front door slams open.
I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth, as footsteps stagger through the foyer. Heavy. Uneven. Then Zero appears in the kitchen doorway.
He looks like hell.
Blood crusted at the corner of his mouth. A bruise already purpling along his cheekbone. His knuckles are split and raw, and there's a tear in his black t-shirt that exposes a slice of pale, muscled torso beneath.
"Holy shit." I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving. "What happened to you?"
Zero's eyes find me in the dim light. They're glassy. Unfocused. Drunk, I realize. He's drunk.
"Nothing." He pushes past me toward the fridge, leaving a waft of whiskey and copper in his wake. "Go to bed, Max."
"You're bleeding."
"Observant." He yanks open the freezer, stares into it like he's forgotten what he was looking for. "Got any more brilliant insights?"
I want to tell him to fuck off and pretend he doesn’t exist. It’s what he deserved. It’s honestlymorethan he deserves. But something—some stupid, self-destructive instinct—makes me reach past him and grab a bag of frozen peas.
"Here." I hold it out. "For your face."
Zero looks at the bag. Then at me. Something dark flickers behind his eyes.
"You think I need your help?"
"I think you need ice. Your cheek is swelling."
He takes the bag from my hand.
Then he smacks it against the edge of the counter, hard, and the plastic tears. Frozen peas explode across the kitchen floor, skittering under cabinets, rolling beneath the island, scattering everywhere.
I stare at the mess. At him.
Zero smiles. It's not a nice smile.
"Oops." He steps closer. Close enough that I can smell the blood on him, the whiskey, the gunpowder-and-winter scent underneath that makes my hindbrain light up despite everything. "Looks like you've got some cleaning up to do."
"I'm not—"
"You're not what?" He tilts his head. The bruise on his cheekbone makes him look dangerous. Unhinged. "Not going to clean up the mess? That's funny. Because you're the reason everything's a mess in the first place."
The words hit like a slap.
"That's not—"
"Not fair? Not true?" Zero laughs, low and bitter. "You walked into this house and everything went to shit. You know it’s true, don’t play the innocent act. We’re not in front of mybrothers.” He leans in, breath hot against my ear. My stomach flutters. "I can't close my eyes without seeing you bent over that bench, making those pretty little sounds while I—"
"Stop." My voice cracks.
"Stop what? Telling the truth?" He pulls back just enough to look at me, and there's something in his expression that might be pain if I didn't know better. "You ruined us, Max. You ruined all of us. The least you can do is clean up the fucking peas."
He shoulders past me and disappears up the stairs, leaving me standing in the middle of the kitchen surrounded by frozen vegetables and the shattered remains of a halfway peaceful evening.
