Page 57 of The Cruelest Chaos

My mom’s eyes are rolling back in her head.

He shoves her on the couch, letting her go. She falls to her ass, her hands going to her throat, her eyes wild.

He turns around and looks at me. “Let’s go.” Then he heads toward the door.

I look at my mom, see questions in her eyes, her face still red. I throw the keys at her. They land in her lap.

“Bye, Mom.”

I follow Maverick to the door. He yanks it open and it hits the wall. He kicks open the screen door, holds it open for me.

I press my fingers to the glass, walking out behind him.

“Ella,” my mom says hoarsely.

I don’t look back at her, but I still in the doorway.

“When are you coming back?”

Maverick stops on the porch, staring straight ahead, away from us.

“I don’t know, Mom.” I let the screen door slam closed.

* * *

“Is it always like that?”

I freeze, my hand in the popcorn bowl in my lap. We’re in Maverick’s bonus room, the lights off, the movie’s opening credits starting on the projector in front of us. I’m curled up on one end of the sectional under a blanket and he’s at the opposite end, legs reclined in front of him.

I take a breath. Shove popcorn in my mouth and stare straight ahead. I don’t want to talk about this. So I just…don’t.

He pauses the movie.

There’s just silence in the room now. I glance at the coffee table in front of the couch, a decanter full of amber liquid and stacked glasses. I want to pour myself a drink and dump it all down my throat right now.

But I force myself to chew the popcorn, kernels jabbing into my gums. I swallow, subtly wipe my hand on the blanket. I still don’t look at him.

“Ella.”

I don’t want to talk about this.

“Ella.”

I hear the impatience in his voice, but I don’t care. He doesn’t tell me anything. We don’t need to trade horror stories. I didn’t ask him to comesaveme from my mother. I’ve experienced far worse than that. Our fights are brutal. The night she hit me last, on New Year’s Eve, that might’ve ended up with both of us dead if I hadn’t gotten out of there, accepted Natalie’s pity invitation. It’s always over the same things: Money, food.Shane.

“Ella, I’m fucking talking to you.” He throws the flat rectangular remote on the coffee table where it skids to a stop by the decanter. The sound makes me flinch, and the tone of his voice has my stomach in knots, but even still…

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I finally find the words.

He snorts. “That’s too bad. I do.”

Anger rushes through me, hot and uncomfortable. I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t leave one war zone for another.Did I?

I turn to glare at him. He’s glaring right back, his eyes gleaming in the still frame of the movie he paused.

He sits up straighter, reaching around the side of the couch, putting the recliner back so his feet are flat on the floor. “Talk to me, Ella. Is it always like that?” he asks again.

I look down at the popcorn bowl in my lap. I’m sitting cross-legged, wearing a grey sweater that was pilled when I bought it from the thrift store two moves ago. I wonder if Maverick has ever set foot inside a fucking thrift store.