Page 71 of Not Made to Last

I’m not ready to leave the comfort and safety of his bed. Leaving would mean facing reality, and reality means the unknown.

I hate the unknown.

My phone vibrates on the nightstand, and I wipe at my tears before reaching for it.

Theo

I’ll be there around 7 tomorrow, but I have to leave early the next morning. Good?

Most sixteen-year-old girls would feel giddy at the thought of their boyfriends driving two hours to spend the night with them, but I just feel… empty.

And I’ve felt that way for so long now that I’m starting to wonder if there’s something wrong with me. And worse, I wonder if I’m always going to feel this way.

I reply “good”to Theo’s message and wait a few minutes to see if he responds. The hopeful part of me wants him to ask what I’d like to do, if I want to go somewhere, or if I want him to bring anything, or just… I don’t even know. And it doesn’t even matter because he doesn’t write back. Why would he? There’s nothing more to say. He’ll show up tomorrow for two reasons. Sex and pity. Luckily, not the two combined, because if that were the case, I’d rather dig a hole between my grandparents and peace out of this life.

And with that thought in mind, I force myself out of Max’s bed and onto my feet. With one hand on the doorknob, I make sure there’s no evidence of the tears I’ve shed, plaster on a smile, and open the door. Then stop in my tracks.

Dom’s sitting in the hallway, his back against the wall, knees up, head lowered.

“Dom?” I quietly close the door behind me. “Are you okay?”

He lifts his head, just an inch, and I break down at the utter devastation swimming in his eyes.

“Dom,” I whisper, my heart dropping. I get to my knees in front of him, settle a hand on his shoulder, and it’s as if that single act—that touch—breaks the walls of the dam that he’dbuilt inside him. His entire body trembles, overflowing with emotions.

I hold him to me, push back my own sobs as he falls apart in my arms. “I don’t know what to do,” he cries.

There’s just over a year between us, a good foot difference in height, and even at fourteen, he has the physical strength to carry my weight. And Max’s, too. Maybe he has been. Maybe I haven’t been doing enough, because right now, he feels so small. So fragile. It’s been years since I’ve held him like this. Years since he’sneededme like this.

“We’ll get through this,” I assure, though I don’t know how. Mom left two weeks ago, without a word, and she hasn’t made contact since.

He pulls back, lifting his sad, defeated eyes to mine. “I’m scared, Ollie.”

“Of what?”

“Everything.”

I sit beside him, take his hand in mine like he did when we were little. Right before he declared mehisOhana.

I’m scared too, I want to say. And I almost do. The words are right there, on the tip of my tongue, but no good can come from revealing my truths.

I worry about Max. About raising him on our own.

I worry about Dominic and how he’s going to get through these critical years without the male guidance most boys need to get there.

I worry we won’t be able to survive on our own. Financially, especially, but in all the other ways that matter.

But most of all, I worry that someone’s going to find out about my mom leaving. That they’re going to see we have no one. That it’s just the three of us. And that they’re going to separate us. Tear us apart.

“What are we going to do for money?” Dom asks. He has his share of the will and the payout from the accident, but he can’t touch it until he’s twenty-one.

“I’ll get a job,” I reply.

“What about school?” he says, his cries subsiding. He squeezes my hand tighter with one hand, the other wiping his eyes.

“I’ll go back one day. It’s not a big deal.”

“I’ll quit, too. We’ll both work.”

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