“Are your parents delusional?” Cheyenne sighs dramatically as she throws herself onto my bed, boots and all. The mattress dips under her weight, springs groaning in protest. Her blonde hair fans out around her face in a chaotic halo, strands tangled from sleep or from wherever she stumbled out of this morning. She’s wearing something far too thin for the kind of chill that drift through the air, which tells me she didn’t come from her own house.
Emotional support, Cheyenne-style. Delivered straight from some booty calls sheets.
“Delusional is definitely one word for it,” Maria mutters from above me. She threads her fingers carefully through my hair, separating strands with slow precision as she starts another tiny braid. “Maybe they’ve just never watched an episode of Criminal Minds.”
I’m sprawled in front of Maria in my rocking chair, head tipped back into her lap, my spine curved as I press into her legs for warmth. The chair rocks faintly with each shift of her weight. Maria smells like vanilla and coconut oil, her browncurls spilling forward every time she leans over me. Her skin still holds the kind of golden tone most people fake in winter.
Right now she looks almost painfully calm compared to the storm brewing in my chest.
“Your dad said he was at St. Augustine for what again?” Cheyenne asks, finally rolling onto her side so she can look at us properly. The dark smudges beneath her eyes suggest her night ran long.
I hesitate.
Maria’s fingers tug a little too sharply on one braid. “Don’t you dare say you don’t know,” she warns.
“I don’t want to say,” I admit softly.
“Spill,” she snaps, sharper now.
The rocking chair creaks as I sit up, pulling away from her lap. I slide away from Maria and onto the floor, crossing my legs in front of me. My palms come up to rub at my face, fingers dragging over the raised scar along my left cheek. The familiar ridge grounds me. Anchors me. I trace it without thinking whenever I’m overwhelmed.
I know what kids from places like St. Augustine are like.
I know.
I’ve heard the stories. The rumors. The whispered warnings parents give their children about boys who grow up in facilities instead of homes.
It’s never framed as anything hopeful.
“He um…” I swallow, the words sticking. “He killed his father when he was fourteen.”
Cheyenne jerks upright so fast the bed squeals under her. “Come again?”
The last of the fog leaves her face instantly.
Dropping my hands into my lap, I smooth them over my skirt, focusing on the clashing patterns of the thrifted fabric so I don’t have to meet their eyes.
“H-he stabbed his father,” I say, my voice quieter now. “Multiple times. The police ruled it insanity. They said there were years of abuse involved. St. Augustine was supposed to be rehabilitation. Or punishment…or both.”
The room feels smaller after that.
Maria goes very still. Cheyenne swings her legs off the bed, planting her feet firmly on the floor.
“And your mom and dad think bringing this psychopath into your house is a good idea?” Maria demands, her voice losing its softness entirely. “He’s eighteen. He can go figure himself out somewhere else.”
The wordpsychopathlands harder than I expect.
I flinch.
“It wasn’t that simple,” I say quickly, even though I don’t fully understand why I’m defending him. “There were reports. CPS calls. They said his father-”
“That doesn’t erase what he did,” Cheyenne cuts in, her tone no longer playful. “Abuse doesn’t magically turn you into someone who stabs a man to death.”
Silence stretches between us.
My fingers drift back to the scar on my cheek. I know what people assume when they see it. I know how quickly a story can be written about you before you ever speak.
“I just…” I exhale slowly. “I know kids from those homes can be unpredictable. Angry. Detached. I’ve seen it.”
