Page 37 of Stupid Dirty

If brittle were an emotional state, that’s how I would describe myself right now. Dried out and spider-webbed with cracks, like the plaster on the ceiling.

Sometimes I wonder which one will last longer, me or this derelict trailer.

“Cade?”

Silas’ voice is soft, and his breath is warm on my face when he speaks, pulling my thoughts back from the edge of whatever self-pitying rabbit hole I was about to dive down.

He’s still got his arms wrapped around me, and it’s selfish, but I don’t want him to let me go. I’m an adult. I should be able to cope with the same shit that’s been happening for years. But it’s been a long time since Dad showed up looking that cracked out, and part of me had forgotten how bad it could be.

With my shitty but steady paycheck and the girls doing well, I’d gotten used to mom’s occasional drinking, weeping and oxy binge being the worst thing that happens around here.

Clearly, it’s made me weak.

And I don’t know what I would have done if Silas hadn’t been here to pull my soft ass out of the fire.

“He’s gone, Cade. You should get dressed before you freeze.”

I know I should, but the weak part of me wants to take comfort in him for just a little longer. Closing my eyes, I squeeze Silas to me as tight as I can for just a second. He stiffens a little, but doesn’t resist. With my face buried in his neck and my eyes closed, I fill my nose with his warm, citrus scent and selfishly grasp for every shred of comfort I can take from him.

Then I school my face back to a less desperate expression, let go of him, and push myself shakily to my feet.

I hiss when my ribs twinge. The bruise there will heal, but it’s going to be sore for a long time. Silas reaches for me, steadying me with one hand on my arm and the other on my waist, and I don’t have the willpower not to lean into it.

For a million dollars and a pancake breakfast, I could not tell you the last time someone babied me like this. I want to curl into him like a cat.

I’m so fucking hungover. I was half-awake, lying in bed with a mouth like the Sahara as I regretted all my life choices and suppressed the urge to vomit, when Dad tore into the trailer on a mission. My body was up and moving on instinct before I knew what was happening, and everything after that was a haze of adrenaline.

Now the adrenaline is gone, but the hangover remains.

My hands are shaking, my stomach is cramping and my body is freezing cold even while uncomfortable waves of heat prickle over my skin. I’m sweaty and dizzy and hurt everywhere that Dad touched me.

Silas is here, though. He walks me to my bedroom, knocking and then speaking softly until Mom unlocks the door.

Everyone inside looks a little pale, but they’re all strong. They know the score. Maddi and Sky launch themselves at me so hard that the pain in my ribs causes another wave of nausea to throb through me, and out of the corner of my eye I see Silas remind them to be gentle.

Reaching over their heads, I pull Mom into the hug as well. She holds herself stiff, but doesn’t resist me. I know without looking that she still has the far-away, hollow look in her eye that she gets at times like this.

She’s far from perfect. I give her plenty of shit for what she’s done wrong, but sometimes I forget how much she’s gone through as well.

“Are you okay?” My voice is pitched low enough that only she can hear me.

“I think I need a break.”

She’s completely flat and emotionless as she says it, which is what I was worried about. Pulling out of my arms, Mom turns away from all of us and goes out into the hallway. The girls are looking after her like they want to follow, but they know there’s no point.

I can take drunk Mom that likes to get into bitchy fights, and I can take weepy Mom that needs to be babied. Functional Mom, although she’s rare, is pretty cool. This is the only version of her I don’t know how to deal with.

Zombie Mom. Which sounds more funny than it is. It’s like the trauma gets too much for her and she just shuts down. Nothing gets through to her; not me, not the girls, nothing. She has a tendency to disappear for days on end and come back when she’s dried out. Which is still better than when she stays here, slowly leeching the happiness around her.

This is the thing that I’m most afraid of when people tell me I can leave the girls alone with her. Even three-sheets to the wind, she’d never deliberately hurt them. In an emergency, she’d do her best. But like this, I’ve seen her walk out the door and not look back, no matter who or what she leaves behind.

The sound of the front door echoes down the hallway, telling me that this is one of those times. We’ll see her when we see her, I guess.

I squeeze the girls as tight as I can while I rearrange my face into something less miserable, and when I pull back, I fake a smile. Two equally fake smiles shine back at me, because this is how it goes. Which makes this all even more sad.

“Okay, ladies. And Silas. How about I get dressed while you salvage whatever you can of your stuff from Tornado Asshole.”

Of all the things to destroy, why did he have to start shredding his daughters’ fucking homework in his search for hidden cash? The front room looks like it’s covered in algebra-themed confetti. Maddi’s face drops as I mention it, because she busts her ass at school and I know this is going to eat at her for a while. I push through.

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