I stare into the eyes of the woman who gave birth to my former self for only a second longer before I push Gabe away and run down the street, needing to be alone. I keep running when he calls out to me. I keep running when my legs start to hurt, when my lungs feel like they’re going to collapse. I just…keep…running. I need to get there before it hits me—before I break.
The moment I pay for my ticket and enter the building, memories flood my mind—overwhelming me even more. I find a restroom to hide in, desperate to ground myself until the panic attack subsides. The time ticks by, seeming to go on forever, the hateful words of my parents and the bone-deep pain in my body consuming me. My heart and soul just can’t understand how they could’ve done the things they did. How they changed so much from before the moment he popped that first pill. The moment that changed everything. I try to block it out and think about Blue, my one good thing in life. I love my friends, but I needed more. I needed someone towantto love me without feeling like they had to. Blue could’ve left so many times, and he hasn’t—despite how difficult I’ve been.
The more I think about him, the more my breathing becomes easier, and the more the negative talk subsides. I wait a little longer than normal to leave the restroom after one of my attacks,knowing what’s on the other side of those doors. Being here is a whirlwind of emotions every time, but I have to do it.
I wash up and leave, walking into the museum’s main area. Walking into flashbacks of a better time, when my father was a positive influence in my life. Before the drugs, before the verbal abuse, before he’d beat me for just breathing the wrong way.
The cars on display are pristine—shining like they’ve never seen the racetrack—the roll cages are in perfect condition, and there’s not a speck of dust on any surface. The cars on the track usually didn’t finish the race looking as beautiful as these, unless the driver was among the best. Every race my father took me to at the speedway is a memory etched in my brain. The times when he had a smile on his face and enjoyed spending time with me. When he didn’t treat me like a burden.
I don’t know how long I’ve been walking around when I feel someone step up beside me, and when I turn to see my best friend, a tear rolls down my cheek. Kaden takes my hand and leads me from the museum to sit us down on a bench outside.
“What are you doing here, Kaden?”
“Gabe called me.”
“Of course he did.” I smile at Gabe knowing who to call in times like this.
“I knew you’d be here, and my friend is in pain. So, where else would I be?”
“You make it sound so simple,” I tell him, with a slight chuckle.
“It is, isn’t it?” He nudges me. “You would do it for me, wouldn’t you? You did when all of that nonsense with Tyler happened last month.”
I shrug and say, “I guess. But that wasn’t your fault. Tyler hurt you.” I can’t make eye contact with him—I won’t be able to stop the tears from flowing. “I’m the dumbass who keeps running away from the one guy who will give me the time of day, all because I have mommy issues.”
“Ender, you didn’t do any of this to yourself. None of what happened to you was your fault.” He forces me to turn and look at him. “You didn’t deserve it. Those was their issues…Hisfault.”
My eyes sting from the breeze, and I shut them to fight back the emotions.
“We know what he did.”
When I meet Kaden’s soft eyes staring back at me, the warmth of his hands around mine soothes me only slightly.
“What are you talking about, Kaden?”
The compassion written on his face and in his tilted head has me gripping his hand even tighter, like I would disappear if I let go.
“Ender, you weren’t very good at hiding the bruises. The makeup you covered them with wasn’t even your skin tone. It was your mom’s, right?”
I feel my eyes widening with every word that comes out of his mouth.
“Who do you think called CPS on them all those times?”
“What?” The lump in my throat threatens to choke me, stopping me from breathing altogether.
“Ender, our parents called CPS to come out to your house so many times, the social workers got tired of it. Your parents always knew ahead of time they were coming. When the social workers got there, everything was ‘in order,’ so they just left and filed a report.”
When I feel wetness dripping onto our hands, I realize I’m crying—my cheeks raw and burning.
“After the tenth time coming to your house and never finding anything wrong, they didn’t bother coming out anymore. They just told Connor’s or my parents they would ‘keep an eye on the situation,’ knowing full well that was the end of it.”
“Every time they came out, my father threatened me, saying I had to tell them that I was happy, and that my parents lovedme,” I whisper, barely loud enough to hear myself. “They would cover up the bruises or tell the person I fell off my bike if it was too big to cover up well enough.”
“We figured that’s what was happening. I remember all of our parents on the phone talking to your mom one day. My mom and Mrs. A kept begging her to let you come live with one of us. She just yelled at them the whole time and finally hung up. I think you were around thirteen then.”
“That’s when he stopped.”
“Yeah, we noticed. But it’s also when they started ignoring you.”
