“They’re healing,” he says, meeting my eyes.
I press my lips into a smile and look for fresh holes. “Almost gone,” I say, wishing it were true. But it has only been three months since the last time Travis shot up. And two months before that. They’ll never truly be gone. So I’ll never stop checking for them.
He lowers his eyes, and I give him my hand. As soon as he takes it, I see the handprint Patrick left across my wrist.
“Jesus,” Travis says, turning it over. “He really grabbed you.”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry I was late.”
I sniff a laugh. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “You didn’t know it was Psycho Day at the mall.”
Travis smiles and sets my hand gently on the table. He feels sorry for me. Everyone always feels sorry for me, if they feel anything at all.
“Where’s Retha?” he asks, looking around.
“Shopping for perfect-ass jeans.”
“Ah. Good,” he says with a laugh. He nods toward the sub shop. “I’m guessing she wants turkey?”
“Yep.”
“On it,” he says, standing up. “You hungry?”
A slap of guilt hits me, and I stammer out a response. “I mean, if you don’t mind,” I tell him. “I’ll pay you back.”
“Shut up, Savvy,” he says, waving me off. “You don’t owe me anything.”
And I appreciate him saying that. Sometimes I feel like he and Retha are the only people who don’t want anything from me. They don’t keep a tab.
He walks off, and when he’s gone, I pull my hand into my lap, rubbing absently at my aching wrist—like I can wipe away my vulnerability. And I wait for something to eat.
***
I carry the groceries inside the house, my sleeves pulled down to cover the bruise on my wrist. Not that my father would ask—he never asks about my bruises. He stares at me as I walk in, and I pause in the doorway and look at him.
“What?” I ask. He’s not fully drunk yet, so I can still talk to him. But since Evan’s not here, I know it won’t be for long.
“You get groceries?” he asks.
I hold up the bags.
He looks down at the floor, and I know that’s not the real question. My shoulders tense, and I lower the bags to my side.
“How long are you going to do this?” he asks in a low voice.
“Do what?” But I know what he’s talking about. He’s constantly saying that Evan is too much for me to handle. That I’m not enough.
“Kathy wants Evan to live with her.”
My hands begin to tremble. She already gets him an extra day a week. I’m not about to let her take him away from me entirely. “No,” I say.
“She has the means—”
“He doesn’t need money,” I say quickly, glaring at my father. “I take care of him.”
“You’re seventeen.”
