Page 133 of Bad at Love
And if Daryl laid a finger on him, god help me.
I know I should maybe call my mother but there's no saying what side she would be on or what she knows. I should probably call the police too, but I don't know the situation or what I'm up against. All I have to go on isNoah calling me, crying, asking for help and Daryl yelling, calling him a faggot. I have a pretty good idea of what's going on but I don't want to get Noah in trouble either.
I get out of bed, slip on my track pants and a T-shirt and sneakers and I'm out the door, in my car and heading up to Santa Clarita at the speed of light,
I have no idea what to expect and I'm kneading the steering wheel as I drive, going over all the possibilities. For the first time since I broke up with Marina, I'm having to deal with something that hasn't involved me and I'm not sure if I'm going to be as level-headed as I can be. If Daryl hurt Noah in anyway, physically, there will be actual hell to pay. There's far too much pent-up anger and aggression rolling through me that really needs an outlet. Getting a few punches in will feel a fuckload better than penning a few angsty poems, but even so, I need to be careful. I can’t let rage get the best of me.
When I pull up to the house though and go through the gates, I'm surprised to see all of the lights in the house are off.
Surprised and disturbed.
You'd think that with the amount of yelling I heard, that lights would be on somewhere. There's no way my mother could have slept through that, she would have to be up.
Unless she's out. Unless they're all out now. Who knows where they could be. Maybe Daryl was arrested. Maybe my mother packed herself and Noah up and they fled. Maybe they're all asleep and Noah was overreacting over a basic argument. Maybe I'm about to burst into their house and find out that there's absolutely nothing wrong—and then get Noah in trouble for real.
I'm starting to think that the latter might be correct.That is until I jog up to the front door, ready to knock, and see that it's already ajar.
Oh shit. Not a good sign.
I push it open and poke my head in. There's one light on in the kitchen, the one above the stove.
"Hello?" I call out because the last thing I want is for Daryl to bring out his handgun and think I'm an intruder.
But even though I hear the shuffle of someone in the kitchen, I don't hear them say anything. Someone is staying silent.
Cold dread coats my back. It's almost enough to make me turn around and head back out.
But I don't.
I keep walking, slowly, my sneakers creeping silently along the tile floors.
It's then that I notice things as I pass them.
A side table knocked over, picture frames face down, their glass shattered.
I tip-toe around the broken glass, keep going.
I pause in the archway into the kitchen.
My mother and Noah are sitting at the table across from each other.
Neither of them are talking.
My eyes go to Noah first and he's staring at me with dried tears on his ruddy face, wearing jeans and a silver long-sleeved shirt. His mouth is smudged red but it's unnatural, the red from lipstick, not from blood.
I feel a hit of relief, the fact that so far he looks completely unharmed. At least physically.
Then I look at my mother.
My heart stills in my chest.
Her eye is purple, crusted blood beneath her nose.
Holy fuck.
"What—" I start to say but my mother immediately raises a finger to her lips.
I practically sprint toward her, crouching down beside her at the table.
