Page 1 of Tangled Hearts

She woke up to the sound of knocking at her bedroom door.

It wasn’t loud or impatient. It almost sounded like it didn’t want to be heard.

When she cracked her door open, he was standing there.

Just a boy.

Barely taller than the frame.

Eyes swollen, cheeks wet, and hands stuffed into the pocket of a hoodie so big on him, it fit like a mini dress.

He didn’t ask to come in. She didn’t have to tell him he could.

The air between them was heavy, smelling like rain and something else she didn’t have the words for yet.

She stepped aside and he slid in without looking at her. His sneakers barely made a sound against the worn carpet.

They sat on the floor in the corner of her room, knees pulled up, saying nothing for a long time.

When he did speak, it was small and light, too low to be heard over the pelting rain at the window. “She ain’t wake up.”

Her heart clenched. She was only eight, but she knew enough to keep her face still.

His voice cracked when he said, “I ain’t mean to push her… she just—” His words got lost somewhere between his throat and the tears coming down his face faster.

At first she thought it was the rain dripping down his brown cheeks. Now, she knew better.

Reaching over, she put her hand on top of his.

He didn’t pull away just continued sniffling.

They stayed like that until his breathing slowed and his head tipped against the wall. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t sleep.

She dozed off and he just listened to her heart rate slow down, counting the thumps between each strike of lightening. He stayed like that until birds chirped and he heard her daddy stumbling through the door like he had a live-in nanny to watch his young as hell daughter.

He waited until the house stilled, leaving before anyone else could wake up.

But she wasn’t sleeping. Only pretending.

She watched him cross the street, hood pulled low, hands buried deep in his pockets. She prayed as best she could that he wouldn’t get in trouble even though she knew what he did was bad. But so was what his mama did to him.

When he got to his front door, he stopped before twisting the knob.

There was no yellow tape. No police. No sound. Only the birds feeding their crying babies.

The door was shut. Curtains drawn.

He stepped inside.

The living room was clean.

The floor was dry.

The couch cushion his mama had been lying on last night was fluffed like it had never been touched.

No one was there.

Not even her.

He stood in the doorway for a long time, chest rising and falling like he didn’t trust his own breath.

Out on the street, a black car sat idling.

The glass was tinted, but inside, another boy—older by a couple years—watched him from the back seat.

Expression unreadable.

The car pulled away slowly.

The boy on the porch never turned around.