Page 80 of Stupid Dirty

It makes sense, but there’s a shifty energy between them that makes me think that’s not the whole story.

Knowing Dad, it never is.

Numbness sinks into me as I walk down the stairs, my steps heavy, and help them drag him in and deposit him on the couch. I turn to face them both, awkwardness hovering over the room like a cloud.

“Thanks, guys. I appreciate it. You should go home and get some sleep.”

Cade looks at me, with his head cocked to the side like a German Shepherd. I know I’m being weird and formal with him right now, but I can’t let him come any closer. I feel like if I do, I’ll crumble.

When he speaks, his tone is low and intimate, and he’s stepping towards me. It sets off every warning bell I have. I want him to get away from Dad as quickly as possible, as if the Rush-family bad luck could rub off on him just by standing too close.

“Silas, I can stay and help. You don’t need to deal with this shit alone.”

I take a step back, out of his reach, and pretend I don’t see his face fall. Tristan is watching the whole exchange with his eagle eye, and for a fraction of a second, I want to punch him in his stupid, expressionless face.

“It’s fine. He’ll sleep for the rest of the night, no big deal. And you’re right, I have to get up early. You should go home and check on the girls.”

My voice sounds distant and tinny to my ears. The world is kaleidoscoping in and out of focus. I’m trying to maintain the mask of being normal, but it feels like all the cracks in that mask are showing and my crazy is leaking out of them.

It only makes me shut down even more. I’m sure Cade would say I was peak-robot right now, if his feelings weren’t so hurt.

That’s a problem for future Silas.

“Okay,” he says, shrinking away. “Call me if you need me, I guess.”

He and Tristan exchange a meaningful look before they turn to go, but I can’t figure out what it means because I’m too busy focusing on how to breathe.

In and out. Stand up straight. Normal, neutral expression.

It feels like my blood has been replaced with motor oil, thick and sludgy, dragging all my limbs down to the ground.

I walk them to the door, and Cade kisses me briefly before they go. Even though I kiss him back, it does nothing to wipe the concern from his face.

He’s so worried about me. He’s so fucking good, down to his bones. I could live a thousand lives and I would never deserve someone as good and vibrant and alive as he is.

When the door closes, there’s an air of finality to it, and I can breathe again. In here, it may be dank and miserable, but at least I know what to expect.

I go through the motions of taking care of Dad. I prop him up on his side with a pillow so he doesn’t choke on his own vomit in his sleep, putting a bucket near him in the hope that he’ll find it. I leave water and aspirin within his reach.

I’m about to head back to my room when I hear him moving. As I turn around, the moon illuminates Dad’s face in a coldwhite light. He looks like a hunter crouched among the bushes, watching me with the same predatory intensity he used to save for race days.

Usually, the drunker he gets, the louder he gets. This is the kind of focused quiet that steals the breath from my lungs in the worst possible way. I freeze, like a rabbit in his sight line.

“Come here.” He’s quiet, but his voice seems to boom across the room to reach me, anyway.

The obedience he’s carved into me moves my arms and legs without my consent, and before I know it, I’m sitting on the carpet in front of him. My knees are tucked up in front of me like a child, and I feel smaller and more fragile than ever as he looks me over.

When his fingers reach out to rest on my knee, I manage not to flinch. I don’t know why I want to, anyway. It’s not like he’s ever truly hurt me.

“I don’t want you to worry, Silas,” he says, as if I have any idea what he’s talking about. “I know this has been bad for you. You’re too much like your mother. I won’t let you keep rattling around this house, getting crazier and crazier.”

He pauses, and I don’t know what to say. There are a million things. I want to ask him why it always sounds like he blames Mom for how she was whenever he talks about it, as if it was something she could control. But thinking about it brings back these fragments of memories that make me feel like a scared little kid again, which makes me want to beg him to keep protecting me and never stop.

Instead, I don’t say anything. Like always.

His rough fingers wrap around my wrist, squeezing it tight enough to burn, and the sensation makes my throat feel thick. I swallow hard, but still can’t find the right words. When I force myself to look him in the eye, I can see tears there, waiting to fall.

In these rare moments of honesty, it feels like I have at least one of my parents back, and I want to cling to it.

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