My mother was passed out and left a mess. We were the ones that had to clean up after her drug-infused rage.
The only noise was Lillian breathing, slow and uneven, like she was learning how for the first time. I reached over and squeezed her hand, and after a moment, she squeezed back.
We didn’t say anything. We didn’t have to. I wanted to comfort her, to say that I would always be there.
But I couldn’t speak, because words meant nothing in thishouse. Words were walls and doors, things to be locked and battered down.
I slipped out the back door, my phone cold in my hand. My legs took me down the block, where the pavement burned with memories and the streetlights flickered on like nervous glances.
I texted Dante on my flip-phone with trembling fingers.
Amelia: Can I come over?
Dante: Dad’s not here. Mom’s home but she won’t bother us. Want me to meet you halfway?
Amelia: No I need to walk. See you soon.
I let the phone drop into my pocket and moved through the dusk as if the air would swallow me.
The town was quiet, all the houses dark and hunched against the coming cold. The only sound was the soft thwack of my shoes and, far off, a siren screaming for nobody in particular.
His house was exactly two blocks away. The paint had peeled back to gray in most places, and the front walk was littered with busted yard toys and last year’s Christmas lights.
But it was warm inside, and I could pretend, for an hour or two, that I belonged somewhere.
Dante answered the door before I could knock. He wore a frayed T-shirt and sweatpants, hair wet from a recent shower.
“You okay?” he whispered, but I shook my head and stepped past him into the warmth.
We didn’t go to his room, because his mom’s bedroom was right across the hall and he said the walls were thin.
Instead, we headed down to the basement where Dante’s dad kept a pool table, a couch and a battered old TV. It was cold and smelled like laundry soap, but I didn’t mind.
Down here, the world above felt impossibly far away.
Dante led me to the far corner, away from the naked bulb and the mildewed laundry basket and gestured for me to sit on the threadbare couch.
He grabbed a fleece blanketfrom the arm and draped it around my shoulders, tucking it in with a gentleness that made my eyes prickle.
Then he sat down, a careful foot or two away, and waited.
I don’t know what I looked like, but he must have seen something in my face that scared him.
He didn’t say anything right away, just drummed his fingers on his knee and watched the carpet, quiet.
There was a deep sense of panic clawing its way through my skin, as if to say, ‘you’re not safe anywhere.’
After a while, when my hands stopped shaking so bad, and my heartbeat lessened a bit. Dante offered me a can of Sprite from the mini fridge under the stairs.
I opened it and drank, the cold sweet fizz scraping the raw places in my throat.
“It was bad, huh?” Dante said, his voice a low hush.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
He reached over, slow and uncertain, and put his hand over mine. His palm was warm, and I didn’t pull away this time.
“You can stay here tonight if you want,” he said. “I’ll make up the guest bed, or we can both crash here.”
