And he closes the door. To give me time to compose myself.
Which would take years.
My parents are here. They came to see me.
I’m still facing the closed door. Thio hooks his fingers under my chin and turns me to him. “Hey. Are you okay? What do you want to do?”
My instinctive reaction is to cover up what’s happening with a joke and brush it off, but he already knows. He knows about my dad, all of it.
“Come in with me?” I haven’t let go of his jacket. Not sure I can.
How quickly he’s become a lifeline.
“Of course,” he says. Then, “Are you sure?”
“You don’t have to.” I cringe. “I don’t know why they’re here. It’s probably about my dad’s new job, and if so, it’s—it’s not going to be pretty, so I understand if you’d rather—”
He kisses me. Pillowy lips and the soft lick of his tongue against mine.
“Let’s go in,” he promises.
I droop, forehead to his, for a breath.
It’s been a month since Mom texted about Dad’s job. And radio silence between all three of us since.
This isn’t good.
No hesitating. No running. Get it over with, and move on.
Get it over with, and ignore the shit out of it.
I scramble for the doorknob behind me, shove it open, and push inside.
My parents are on the couch. Orok’s perched in a dining room chair he dragged over, arms folded, discomfort screaming from every strained muscle.
Dad’s in his usual business-casual button-up and slacks, and Mom’s in a nice sundress. They’re here, not a projection.
But my dad looksrough.His shirt is wrinkled, his hair flattened but not brushed.
These facts filter through my disbelief and I frown at them.
Thio closes the door behind me.
Not two seconds after it shuts, Mom leaps from the couch, runs into the kitchen, and hugs me.
Her shoulders shake, her grip death-tight around me, spots of wetness seeping into my shoulder.
She’s crying.
There’s not a scrap of alcohol left in my body, suffocated by a barrage of sensation that tightens around me as immovably as my mom’s arms. Dread rises to the forefront, corrals everything else, and asserts dominance over the way I stare at my father and can only think,Oh gods, no.
I go rigid. Arms out at my sides. Heart flatlining, impossibilities trying to take shape in my head, but I don’t let them. Can’t trust them.
Dad scrubs his hands on his knees, his eyes bloodshot, like maybe he hasn’t been sleeping.
My gaze tracks to Orok, who analyzes my dad, my mom still hugging me, before looking at me with broken-apart exhaustion.
“Sebastian,” Dad says, and coughs into his fist. “I hope you don’t mind us coming. We—”
