Page 22 of Leah

The discussion went from guitars to him being unfaithful. He’d try to be calm, but she’d poke the nest relentlessly, until he exploded in return, calling her bipolar and sick. The tit-for-tat carried on into the night, until they’d had enough of hearing their own voices.

Silence would fill the rooms of the house, and I’d be sitting there on my bed, back against the wall, waiting.

That night she struck at two in the morning. It was like a dynamite had gone off. The chaos that rattled the house caused me to run out of my bedroom and follow it down the stairs and to the living room.

She’d grabbed the neck of that brand new guitar and smashed it against the coffee table, fracturing it until it was nothing but a thousand little pieces scattered across the hardwood floors.

“You won’t win!” she screeched.

Mom looked possessed.

Her eyes were wild, her anger so sharp, I felt my bones stiffen as she carried on. My heart broke at the sight of her manic behaviour and at the shards of the instrument I’d grown to love for such a short amount of time.

Why?

Why was she like this?

Dad stormed into the room, grabbing at her, and she flailed and twisted in his arms. She hit him and screamed, and he forced her down to the ground, pinning her in one place as he tried to calm her down.

“Stop it, baby, stop it,” he pleaded. “Stop it, baby. I love you. I love you. Calm down.”

She sobbed uncontrollably, suddenly clinging to him like he was her lifejacket.

“Go to your room, Carter,” he panted out as she bucked again beneath him. “Now, Carter. Go!”

I returned to my room and resumed my position from before.

On the bed.

Back against the wall.

Staring into the darkness until she finally calmed down, crying softly into Dad’s arms as he told her how much he loved her.

Then, she was normal again.

Eight

Leah

There was a place inside my mind I escaped to sometimes. It was a chest filled with memories, and every time I felt low, I cranked that baby open and picked a memory that would make me smile.

It was bittersweet that most of those memories consisted of Carter doing something funny or heartfelt.

I watched the hours go by in bed, heart hurting from that concert. My eyes were aching, and suddenly I was desperate to find a memory that would erase this feeling. When it came to me, I shut my eyes and relived it.

“I like what you did with your tongue tonight,” I said, falling into the mattress beside him. I was still wrapped in my towel, my hair drenched, while he was in his grungy clothes, looking half-dead. It had been a big night. I was pretty sure a girl threw her underwear at him—what else would have given Harold such a heart attack?

“What did I do with my tongue?” Carter asked, amused.

I watched his mouth as I answered softly, “After you sang, you took a sip of your beer and then you ran your tongue along you bottom lip.”

His lips bunched up to one side, a half-smile that made my heart jump. “Did I?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You liked that?”

“Me and everyone else.”

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