“Lara, so I have some information here for you,” she says, holding up a folder. “Are you feeling ready to talk? Do you need a snack or anything?”
“I’m ready to talk, thank you.”
I take the folder and listen to everything she has to say, even though I already know what decision I’m making.
CHAPTER 8
JAKE
At first, when I get home, I don’t realize that anything is wrong. The house is quiet, almost eerily so. I know from texting Shelby earlier that she’s out with her friends, hanging at a bonfire, so I knew that she wasn’t going to be home.
This afternoon, I worked my last job with the guys, putting up drywall in a new construction. They all congratulated me on going to Michigan. One of the guys got me a hat, and another showed me that he’d already bought tickets to come see a game.
Lawrence gave me an envelope of cash, wouldn’t take it when I tried to give it back to him.
Now, I kick off my boots and let out a long sigh. My entire body hurts, like it always does after working construction for a day. That’s why all the guys on the crew are constantly telling me not to let it be my full-time job, that it will take your body, chew it up, and give it back to you mangled and unusable.
But I never intended construction to be my full-time job.
Feeling nasty, covered in sweat and dirt from a full day of work, I move carefully so I don’t brush up against anything in thekitchen. I cleaned it yesterday, and even though I’m leaving soon and I don’t give a fuck about my dad, I want things to be nice for Shelby.
When I turn the corner and start down the hallway, I see it.
The door to my bedroom is open.
When I’m playing hockey and everything is going right, I get this feeling like I’m not quite in control - like someone smarter and more athletic is playing me as a video game character, controlling my every move and cinching the win for my team.
Right now, my body starts to feel like that. Like someone else is controlling me. I can taste the adrenaline pumping through my veins as I get nearer to my room.
Shelby’s door is still shut, but mine is halfway open, like someone’s kicked through it and it rebounded before coming to a stop. On the floor are wood splinters and the lock mechanisms, still attached to chunks of wood.
I should have thought about reinforcing the door frame. Then again, I’d always secretly thought I was being dramatic for having the locks in the first place. I’d always been sure, somewhere deep inside, that my dad might be an asshole, but he would never really hurt me.
Now, that feeling takes its last, gasping breath, before shriveling up and dying. I know with a painful sense of finality that I will never think of my dad the same.
Everything I didn’t already pack in my truck is gone — the mattress is stripped, dresser drawers pulled open and completely emptied. The room looks like nobody lives here. It looks ready for a brand-new kid to move in.
My hands start to shake with anger as I move through the room, taking note of everything missing - my hockey trophies, my clothes, and every picture of Lara and me that had been sitting on the top of my dresser. Every poster has been ripped off the wall, every shoe box pulled out from under the bed.
The more I think about it, the more that I imagine my dad in here, in the one place that was supposed to be just for me, the angrier I get. I think about him going through my stuff, touching each item with his dirty, beer-shaken hands.
Then I’m flying through the house, barely feeling my feet as they hit the ground, heading for my truck so I can find my dad and beat the shit out of him. Then I freeze.
There are two large boxes sitting on the curb outside the house, technically in the street.
“Fuck you,” I spit, grabbing the boxes and hauling them up and into the bed of my truck, not allowing myself to think about how pitiful it is that everything I own in this world can be condensed down into these two boxes and the stuff in my backseat.
Jumping into the driver’s seat, still shaking with rage, I pull out my phone to text my sister.
Jake:Hey, leaving early for Michigan. Not coming back.
Lara’s houselooks different this late at night, and for a second, I think about going to the front door instead of the window.
I think about what it would be like if one of her parents opened the door. Maybe her mom, smiling like she did in that first picture Lara ever sent me of her.
“You must be Jake!” she might say, taking me by the arm and pulling me inside. I’d be able to smell their home-cooked dinner, and she’d insist that I have some leftovers when she found out I had nothing for supper.
Lara would be in her bedroom, marooned in tissues and cold medicine, and she would insist that I not come in, but her dad would talk her out of it, tell us to put on a movie.
