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“It’s good you’re here, man,” Jonah says, and I nod, not knowing what else to do. “You going to come in or just stand in the doorway?”
“Jonah,” Connie hisses, and Jonah moves around her to close the front door. It’s only now I realize I’ve merely stepped foot in the house, nothing more, and I’m blocking the door from actually closing. Now is my time… If I want to leave, I can make an excuse, but Jonah doesn’t give me the chance because he’s literally pushing me out of the way so he can close the door behind me.
More thumps on the staircase, and Hillary, Jonah’s other sister, appears, focused on her phone. “What’s for dinner?”
Hillary’s one of the kids who likes to hang out at the rink’s parking lot with her middle school friends. I kind of remember when she was born. Mom would always bring me over here to play with Jonah while she took care of Hillary so Connie could get some rest. It’s weird—the things I can remember… and the things I can’t.
“We have a guest joining us for dinner,” Connie says, and Hillary looks up at me, her eyes widening just a tad. She plays with her hair, then offers a smile, but there’s something off with it. “Hey, Jace,” she coos, thenwinks, and I don’t know what to do with that, other than nod.
Without a word, she races back upstairs, and then the kitchen door opens, and Eric, Jonah’s dad, appears, wearing a pale pink apron. “Jace!” he greets. “Good to see you! Dinner’s almost ready!”
“You too. Thank you, sir.”
Hillary’s upstairs singing now, and music blasts from the kitchen while the TV plays loudly in the living room, and it’s too much. Too much noise. Too many sources. Too much going on in my head to separate the sounds, the voices, and now Amber—the littler sister—is jumping up and down in front of me, waving a doll in the air.
Sweat pools at my hairline, and I pull up my sleeves, try to breathe through the sudden anxiety swarming inside me. “I’ll be right back,” Connie says. “I just have to make a quick phone call.”
“Do you want a drink or something?” Jonah asks.
My throat is dry as hell, but I don’t want to inconvenience him, so I tell him, “I’m fine for now.”
“You like my doll?” Amber asks, her arms raised in the air. I don’t know if she’s asking me to pick her up, but I barely know her. Then again, I barely know any of the people in this house.
Not anymore.
“My doll!” she repeats. “You like her?”
“Yeah,” I say, but it comes out in a whisper. I try again. “Sure, it’s, uh…nice.”
“Notit! She!” Amber corrects, hugging the doll to her chest. “Her name isHarlow.”
My stomach dips, and beside me, Jonah lurches forward, as if about to attack his little sister. “Get out of here, squirt!”
She squeals as she runs away into the kitchen, and Jonah waits until she’s no longer in view to mumble, “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay.” But it’s not. Notreally. I need to get out of here.This was a mistake, I’m ready to say, but a knock on the door has me stepping aside so Jonah can open it.
Lana’s on the other side, her eyes immediately meeting mine. As comforting as it is to see a familiar face, it’s just another person, another voice added to all the ones already in my head. “Hi, Jace,” she says, and she stops right in front of me, placing a hand on my shoulder as she rises to her toes, kisses my cheek. I’ve never greeted Lana this way, but I do it now, simply because she does.
She turns to Jonah and repeats the same action, but it’s clear he’s more comfortable with it than I am.
“Five minutes!” Eric announces, coming out of the kitchen. He’s no longer in the apron when he approaches me, his hand out between us. “How you doin’?” he asks, shaking my hand. Then he grimaces. “Sorry, that was a dumb question, considering?—”
“Dad,” Jonah interrupts. “You’re making things awkward.”
“Right.” He points a thumb over his shoulder. “Get back in the kitchen then?”
“Yes,” Jonah responds.
“I’ll come with you,” Lana says, and then it’s just me and Jonah, standing by the front door, and he’s right. Even before his dad spoke, it was awkward, and I don’t see that changing.
“So, you came…”
“I did, but…” I run through all the excuses in my head, but none of them feel as right as just telling him the truth:this is too much.I lift my gaze to his. There’s an emotion in his eyes I can’t decipher, but I know it’s not pity. His smile fades the longer I look at him, and I wonder how he sees me right now—besides the obvious black eye and bruises.
There’s something else.
Somethingmore.