Page 57 of Trustfall

“Lucas, I started this business with the hope that it would stay in the family. But instead of taking what I’m handing you on a silver platter, you insist on wasting your life traveling around God knows where until you run out of money.”

I stand up, but keep to my side of the table. My mom gets up and busies herself with something at the counter.

“I’m curious, Dad. Why now? Why are you trying to be a parent all of a sudden? Where were you when you left me alone at a train museum when I was four years old? Or when you promised to come to my little league games and never fucking showed up to one? Or how about when I got lost in a psychiatric ward when I was eight because I was trying to find you? Where were you then, huh?”

Dad’s eyes swim with regret before being swiftly consumed by rage. They darken, and he lunges, upending the table in one swift motion. Plates and glasses smash to the floor. Food splatters and lands in globs on the hardwood. Mom’s tea splashes against the walls, thick brown drops sliding down and pooling on the ground.

“Calvin,” my mother screams.

“You will not talk to me like that in my own goddamn house.” He points his finger at me. “If you want to ruin your life. Fine. But you will not speak to me that way.”

I walk over the broken dishes, feeling them crunch underneath my boots. I stand toe to toe with my dad. I surpassed him in height when I was about fifteen. I have at least three inches on him now.

“Or what?” I taunt.

“Don’t test me, son.”

“You gonna hit me, Dad? Go ahead. Hit your own fucking son in front of his mother.”

Mom, who was starting to pick up some of the bigger pieces of broken plates on the floor, shoots up. “Enough,” she yells. Mom never yells. Never once has she raised her voice at me. Or Dad, for that matter.

She comes over and wedges herself between us. “Calvin, please.”

“It’s okay, Ma,” I hiss. “I’m leaving.”

“If you leave right now like this, don’t bother coming back, Luke. I mean it,” Dad shouts.

“Calvin—” Mom starts, but I don’t let her finish.

“No problem,” I say. “You won’t ever have to see me again.”

I go to my room and grab a duffle bag, filling it with everything I’ll need for the next few nights. Mom can send me the rest of my stuff later. Forget one last summer. I need to leave this place as soon as possible. I’ll stay with Nate tonight, go to graduation, and then get the fuck out of this town.

I’m jolted out of my thoughts when I hear some shuffling outside my front door, followed by a soft tapping. When I go to check on the noise and open the door, my heart sinks. Emory is standing there with red-rimmed, puffy eyes, fresh tears still staining her face.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” she sniffles.

“Baby.” I pull her inside and wrap my arms around her, squeezing gently. Her arms are freezing, and her hands are trembling. “What happened?”

“I…” she trails off, avoiding my question. “Can you hold me?”

“Yeah, Em. Come here.”

I walk her into the house and help her sit on the couch. Then I grab the football blanket I know she likes and drape it over her. I sit down next to her, and she falls into me, sobbing. “Baby,” I try again. “Tell me. Please.” But she doesn’t say anything. She just continues to cry quietly. I hold her tight, rubbing slow circles on her arm. It isn’t until I hear her breathing start to regulate and the crying stop that I realize she has fallen asleep.

She cried herself to sleep in my arms.

I rack my brain trying to figure out what could have caused her to be this upset. Did she get a call from her boss? Maybe her dad said something to her?

“Who hurt you, baby?” I whisper. But she doesn’t answer. Her eyelids flutter in quick, rapid movements, as if she’s dreaming. I gently guide her to her side, so I can pick her up. Then, I carry her into my bedroom. I slide off her shoes and put her in my bed, still in her clothes. I don’t want to risk waking her by trying to get her to change. She’s still clutching the football blanket, like a child holding a teddy bear, when I bring the covers up and over her. I climb in behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and holding my hand over her heart. Now that we’re settled in bed, a sudden wave of rage comes over me. I’m not a violent man. Sure, I’ve been in my fair share of fights, especially working at a rowdy bar, but I tend to avoid physical confrontation if I can. Not because I'm weak or scared, but because there are better ways to resolve issues.

But as I lie here listening to Emory’s steady breathing and feel the thud of her heartbeat against my hand, I’m pretty damn sure I would burn the fucking world down for her. Doesn’t she realize? I would chase every single one of her demons away. I would fight anyone who ever made her feel like less than the goddess she is.

If she just let me in, I would steal back everything she lost until she’s whole again.

21

LUKE

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