Lola shouldn’t be carrying all of this alone. And if I’m honest with myself, she deserves more support because I’m terrified I might fuck it up.
I take another drag, let my head fall back, and stare at the crack in the ceiling. I have stared at that crack for so many nights I could trace it blind.
The trailer creaks as the wind shifts outside. Metal siding rattles faintly. Something loose near the roof knocks once, twice, then settles. The cold seeps in through the thin walls and crawls over my skin.
I take another drag, followed by another slow exhale.
The smoke is still halfway in my lungs when it happens. A loud bang on the trailer door, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I freeze, caught mid-inhale as my body locks up. Every muscle tightens before my brain even registers what the hell that sound was.
I sit there stiff on the sagging couch, eyes glued to the door, the joint burning between my fingers as my mind races to keep up with my nerves.
It’s probably my cunt of an aunt. She never needs a reason to knock on the door. It could be noon with the sun high and the neighbors mowing their lawns, or two in the morning with frost biting the grass and the street silent. It doesn’t matter. If she desires the urge to remind me where I stand, she will march across that manicured yard in her expensive slippers and pound her fist against this flimsy door until it opens. She likes the performance of it. The reminder. The power.
The bad blood she is forced to tolerate because cutting me off completely would appear ugly on paper.
“Fuck off,” I shout toward the door, not bothering to get up from the couch. My voice bounces off the thin metal walls and comes back sharper.
I am not rushing to my feet to open that door for another lecture about how I am destroying her life by existing. I am not apologizing for breathing too loudly, or taking up space she never wanted to give me in the first place.
I hear my name.
“Jace.”
It’s her. Bells.
Not loud. Not demanding. Simply her voice saying my name, and it slips through the metal right into my chest. Everything inside me goes silent. The irritation, the fight, the instinct to snap back. It all quiets in an instant.
I place the joint on top of the crushed Coke can I use as an ashtray, and move before I realize what I’m doing. Two strides across the tight space, I reach the door. For a moment, my hand hovers over the handle, fingers curled around the metal, but I don’t turn it yet.
Stupid thoughts burst through my mind all at once. Her dad. What if she’s about to say that her dad is gone? What if I open this door and the world has shifted on its axis for her.
I push it open and the night air rushes in as Lola stands in the dark.
The dim light spilling from inside silhouettes her in soft gold against the black yard behind her. She appears small in it. Her arms are wrapped tightly around herself, shoulders hunched forward as if she’s trying to fold in and disappear. Her jacket is too thin for such a cold night. She’s trembling. Her eyes are red, and tear tracks run down her cheeks, that she never bothered to wipe away.
Something has happened.
“Bells,” I say, my voice already softer. “What the fuck.”
She doesn’t answer, she simply looks at me, and that look is enough.
I step back without thinking.
“Come in.”
She slips past me into the trailer, brushing my arm as she moves.
When I close the door and turn around, she is standing nearby, taking everything in.
The old trailer looks like it always does—old and rundown. The overhead light flickers occasionally before settling into a weak yellow glow that reveals the cracks in the ceiling and the faint water stain spreading in one corner. An upside-down crate acts as a coffee table, with an empty Coke can on top holding ashes and a half-finished joint still smoldering.
The kitchenette runs along one wall, with cabinets that have peeling white paint. The bed in the corner is narrow, with dark sheets, one pillow, and three blankets because the nights get colder than I ever admit.
It’s not much. It’s never been much.
I see it then.
The reality of this place through her eyes—the raw truth of how I live. I hate that she sees it. I hate that she knows this is my normal.
