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She looks up with empty, glazed-over eyes. They've been that way for a while; it's the same look she has in photos I've seen of her in early adulthood—when she was using.

Not that I could blame her if she's doing it again.

"How am I supposed to leave you here?" I whisper, shaking my head. "We should leave…together."

She scoffs. "What are you talking about? Why would I leave? I don't want to leave."

"It's only going to get worse."

"Shut up," she snaps. "You don't know what you're talking about. I love him. You don't know anything about marriage or relationships or how any of this…real-life stuff works, so just stop." Lowering her voice, she adds, "And what if he hears you?"

I think about the day we moved out again—about the car ride and the lecture she gave me about how people who care about you should and shouldn't treat you. I've said the same thing to her several times since, but like me, I don't think she's ever known how love is supposed to look.

But surely, she knows it's not this, either.

"You're only proving my point," I hiss. "I can't go to college."

"You have to go," she says. "He's paying for it. And to be honest, you only make things worse around here with all of your judgment and complaining."

She empties the dustpan into the garbage just as Paul steps out of his office, passing me on his way into the kitchen.

"Can I make you some lunch, honey?" my mom asks him.

"No. I'll just—fuck!" he screams.

We both jump back, a visceral reaction to what normally comes next.

He lifts his right foot, inspecting the bottom and pulls out a bloody shard of glass. "God damn it, Kathy!" he shouts, tossing it in her direction. "I told you to clean this shit up."

He backhands her already-bruised face, sending her into the countertop and then onto the floor. She covers her head with her arms as he pummels her with his fists before kicking her over, and she curls into a ball on the tile. "You're lucky I don't need fucking stitches!"

"Stop!" I yell, stepping between them. "Leave her alone!"

Paul grabs my arm, squeezing hard, digging his fingers into my flesh before pushing me backward; the sharp edge of the marble countertop digs into my ribs, and I scream.

"You're not going to tell me what to do in my own fucking house," he says. "You know what you both are? You're fucking ungrateful. Clean all of this up, and then, yes, you can make me lunch."

My mother pulls herself to her feet as he leaves. "What is wrong with you?" she asks.

"With me? I—"

"Stop!" she yells. "You need to mind your own business and stayoutof my marriage."

"He's going tokillyou," I hiss through clenched teeth. "And you're going to make me watch it…unless we leave."

She takes a step toward me, then brings her hand back and slaps me hard across my face.

Shocked, all I can do is stare back at her, mouth gaping.

"You're an adult, Noah. Don't make me choose between you and my husband; I don't think you'll like what I decide. Now get the fuck out of my house."

"What? But—"

"Now!"

Tears stinging my eyes, I snatch my keys from the hook by the front door and storm out, slamming it behind me. Then I climb into my white BMW, back out of the driveway, and head for Brielle's lake house. It's kind of a farewell party for the group I fell into this year; we're going to hang out here, swimming and drinking all day, and then head down to the carnival on the lake in the evening—one last party before we all go our separate ways, though Brielle and I are supposed to be roommates next year.

After what happened with Mia, I don't feel so good about that anymore.