Page 34 of Bloom

Leaning against the counter, Hunter crosses his arms over his chest and crooks a brow. “I thought that was your job.”

I would laugh, maybe marvel over Hunter joking around with me, if I wasn’t on the verge of tears. “Please, Hunter.”

Two words and his expression becomes stoic, eyes glimmering with concern as they scan me once. “Go. I got it.”

Relief almost buckles my knees. “I swear, I’ll be quick.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

It’s not a flippant offer or a rhetorical question. He’s deadly serious, so earnest, it brings tears to my eyes. Like if I said yes, he wouldn’t hesitate.

God, I want to say yes.

Briefly, I imagine how hard it would be to feel scared with him by my side. And then, I imagine the look on his face when he discovers what I’ve killed myself hiding.

“No,” I choke out. “No, that’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

No. “Yes. Thank you, though.”

I don't risk waiting around because I don't trust myself not to break down and take back my refusal. So, against my better judgment, I hightail it out the door, towards what in my gut I know is not going to be good for me.

He's waiting for me on the curb outside Bishop’s, hunched over with his head between his knees, reeking so strongly of booze it makes my eyes water, even from a distance. I’m under no illusions that he’ll be happy to see me, but I still cringe when bloodshot eyes meet mine and my dad barks, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Saving you from a public disturbance charge. You're welcome.“Taking you home.”

Dad scoffs. Attempting to clamber to his feet, he lasts all of three seconds before gravity pulls him back down. I sigh as I crouch down in front of him, trying to keep my distance, but his sweaty palms land on my bare shoulders and yank me forward. My knees hit the uneven ground, and I wince as I feel gravel scrape my skin, silently wishing I’d sucked it up and powered through the annoyance of my jeans cutting into my stomach rather than changing into more comfortable cotton shorts after my ride earlier.

“Tommy call you?” Rancid breath slaps me in the face as Dad scoffs again, drunk and suspicious. “How’s he got your number, Caroline?”

Because every other bar in a fifty mile radius does. Why the hell would Bishop’s be any different?

“You shacking up with him? That why you left me?” His eyes narrow. “You get yourself knocked up?”

I don’t bother answering; I know he’s not really listening. “Let me help you to the car.”

He doesn’t. I try, and he shoves me away again, sending me toppling backwards onto my palms, scraping them up too.Rising on wobbly feet, he leaves me on the ground and staggers to the car, wrenching the door open with such vigor, it creaks.

Hands and knees stinging, I push myself to my feet.

Bright side; he’s in the car. One step down.

“Seatbelt,” I remind quietly as I slip into the driver’s seat and secure my own.

“Fuck off.”

Oh, if only I could.

I stay silent as I start the engine, listening to the incoherent drunken rambling that the radio can’t quite drown out. He’s always done that; talked to himself beneath his breath, even back when he was sober. It's so...Dadto me. It used to be comforting. Amusing. Something Mom and I would tease him about. Now, it makes me sick and sad and so many other things that I'm too tired to feel.

He hates me—that's what he says now. Quietly, uncaringly, he calls me every vile name under the sun as if I'm not there.

I'm useless.

I'm stupid.

He wishes it was me instead of her.

---