When I wake up bright and early Friday morning for my shift at RJ's, I realize that mom never came home. Dressed and cradling a cup of coffee, I sit at the kitchen table as Savannah flounders around, getting ready for school. I pointedly ignore the curious and semi-worried glances she throws my way, and usher her out the front door before she can ask a question that I don't have the answer to.

When the clock strikes 8, I begrudgingly empty my mug, grab my purse, and leave the front door unlocked, just on the off chance that she wanders in while I'm gone.

I push all thoughts aside and throw myself into my work to keep busy. I spend my eight hour shift at the diner serving tables, collecting tips, and entertaining Sidney's idea to plan for a stake-out, that apparently, she was one hundred percent serious about. I ignore her curious glances too, and when she asks if something is bothering me, I muster up a shrug and an excuse about being tired.

Which, ultimately, isn't really an excuse. I'm tired of chasing after my mother. Tired of watching her drink herself to death.

But who else is going to chase after her?

When I step inside the still unlocked house in the late evening, only to find it as quiet as I left it, I heave an annoyed sigh and text Austin that I won't be able to make it for my shift at Vice tonight.

Mom is officially missing. Again.

I should've known she would be; I mean, to an extent, I can't exactly blame her. Learning that your ex-husband, who you're still legally married to, is suddenly sober and a soon-to-be father is a huge blow to the temple.

It just sucks that I still have to drop everything and look for her. While pacing the kitchen and scrounging up possible places she might be hiding out at, I briefly wonder if she'd drop everything do the same for me if our roles were reversed.

Probably not. I don't know if that makes me a fool or not.

I change out of my uniform, throw on an oversized sweatshirt, and call a cab. Twenty minutes later, I leave a note and a $20 bill on the kitchen counter for Savannah, instructing her to order a pizza for dinner after her shift and to lock the front door if I'm not home before she goes to sleep.

Austin's phone call comes when I'm sitting in the backseat of the cab, an old school rap song blaring through the speakers. Pushing the guilt aside, I ignore it.

I want to answer it, but I know that if I do, he'll leave Vice and come to my aid. Again. While I'm thankful for the genuine care he showers me with, I know that this is something I need to do on my own.

My heart is in my throat when the cab comes to a stop in front of Aunt Dina's trailer. This time, the lights are on, and three other vehicles sit in her gravel driveway. Right away, I know that mom is somewhere inside.

Loud music blares from the other side of the front door. I raise my fist and knock. I don't expect anyone to hear me over the vulgar rap music, but to my surprise, a figure peeps out from behind the sheet that covers the tiny window in the door. Seconds later, the music comes to a complete stop, and the silence is louder than the stereo was.

The sound of the deadbolt being unlocked resembles a gunshot in an empty forest, with crickets chirping vaguely in the distance. Dina flings the door open and I take a step back when I get a good look at her.

When I was younger, my mom's favorite TV show was Intervention. I used to wonder if she watched it so she could have some sort of an idea on how to approach my dad when he was strung out and using daily.

The show was graphic, obviously. It displayed real addicts and followed them around while they bought drugs, sold them, and used them. I know what an elastic band wrapped around someone's bicep meant, I just never knew I'd one day see it in person.

Ignoring the blatant disbelief that I'm sure is etched across my face, Dina visibly rolls her eyes. "What do ya want, kid? I'm busy."

I ignore her patronizing tone, too stunned to reply.

"My mom," I finally stammer. I peer over her shoulder, but I can't see anything. It's dark and foggy.

Dina groans and wrenches the door open wider. I blink in shock.

The fact that I'm currently standing on a porch that is littered with broken wicker furniture and dead house plants, staring into the door of a double wide trailer at my mother, who is surrounded by scantily clad women and skinny, tattooed men, is the most surreal experience I've ever witnessed.

In this moment, I'm disgusted. Confused. Angry. Embarrassed. Ashamed.

Dina's gravelly voice rings out, snapping me out of my stupor. "Maeve, you gonna get rid of your kid or invite her inside?"

Mom looks at me with glazed over eyes that are the same color as my own.

"I'm not done here," she calls out, a dopey grin on her face. The people around her laugh as if she just told the funniest joke they've ever heard.

Heart beating in my throat, I swallow harshly and snap my features into place. I will not let her see how this is affecting me.

"There's a cab waiting in the driveway. Let's go home, mom. We need to talk," I barter.

"She's a grown woman," Dina interrupts. "She ain't gotta leave if she don't want to."

"Mom," I call when the man beside her hands her a blunt, successfully distracting her from the issue at hand.

"Go home," Dina groans.

"Mom!" I snap urgently. "Is dad the reason you're doing this? You're no better than he is right now. This is what you spent years trying to get him away from. Let's go home and talk, we can fix this. We can get you some help."

Someone turns the stereo back on. The strung out group erupts in laughter.

I snap.

"God damnit, mom!" I scream. Not wanting to venture any further than I have to, I reach out and smack my palm against the open door. The sound of the door bouncing off of the wall gathers the group's attention once more.

Somehow, amidst the chaos, I catch mom's eye. I take a deep breath.

"If you don't leave with me right now, don't bother coming home," I say slowly, surely.

She laughs, but I see the brief flash of panic that crosses her features.

"I mean it," I choke out. "I should've done this a long time ago. You're not welcome in my house when you're drinking yourself to death and using illegal drugs."

Dina cuts in. "She's your moth—"

"No she isn't!" I scream. "No she fucking isn't."

I cut my gaze back to mom and say, "If you love me. If you love Savannah... if you fucking love yourself, you will get off of that couch and walk to the cab that has been waiting on us for thirty minutes. If you don't, I'm done. For real this time."

She doesn't move. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't even fucking blink.

She never fucking does anything.

"Okay," I choke out. I spin around and stomp down the stairs, and my face heats up as the volume of the stereo increases, reverberating throughout the dark trailer park and drowning out any other sounds.

The gravel crunches beneath my tattered Vans as I walk back to the cab, and launch myself inside. The quiet interior calms me. I feel safer, more secure. The driver doesn't say anything, and neither do I.

I will myself not to cry.

I think the last time I cried was when I was seven. Mom and dad had been arguing again. It was the one and only time dad had ever gotten scarily violent. They were chest to chest, nose to nose, and mom's face was streaked with tears. Dad was trying to leave and mom wouldn't let him. When he tried to go around her, she shoved his chest. In a fit of rage and itching to get his hands on more meth, he pinned her to the wall by her throat. I vividly remember carrying Savannah to her bedroom, trying my best to console her sobbing frame as I dialed 911. At seven fucking years old.

Memories of talking to EMT's and police officers flash through my mind. If I try really hard enough, I can vividly remember the face of the social worker that inspected our house one week after the incident. We'd worked really hard to get the house spotless for the home visit. Mom was nervous, dad was staying with a friend, and Savannah was blissfully oblivious as to why the woman in the expensive pantsuit was asking her invasive questions.

My eyes burn with unshed tears, and I blink harshly at the unfamiliar emotion.

I never cry. I won't cry.

And I don't.

I don't cry when the cab pulls up in front of my house and I shove a handful of bills in his face. I don't cry when I wave off a chipper Savannah, a paper plate full of greasy pizza in her hands, and instead stalk off to the isolated confines of my bedroom. I don't cry when I toe off my shoes, strip down to nothing but an oversized t-shirt and panties, and turn my bedroom light off. I don't cry when I shove my still turned-off phone under my pillow and stare up absentmindedly at the popcorn ceiling.

An hour later, when I faintly hear the sound of the TV in the living room shut off, the toilet in the hall flush, and the sound of Savannah's bedroom door thud to a definite close, I cry.

——

I'm not sure if it's the pounding headache or the sound of my locked door knob jiggling that wakes me up. I groan into my pillow, my flushed, tear-stained face buried into the fabric of my pillow case.

I tense up when I hear hushed voices on the other side of the door, and sigh when I hear Savannah say, "Got it!" a little too loudly.

I turn my head in the direction of my door and my swollen eyes blink in confusion, noticeably widening when Austin steps through. His hair is messy, his sweatshirt covers his tattoos, and gray sweatpants hug his frame.

He walks up to my bed quietly and crouches down beside me. Finally, he rasps out a quiet, "Hey."

It makes me want to cry. Again.

I clear my throat and hug my pillow. "Hi."

He reaches out and squeezes my bare calf, my comforter twisted haphazardly around the rest of my body.

"You doing okay?" He asks quietly.

When I don't immediately answer, his face pinches in concern.

"No," I answer honestly.

His eyes roam my face intently. "That's okay," he says gruffly.

I nod.

He squeezes my calf again. "You hungry? I brought you something."

"What'd you bring?" I ask, intrigued.

He smiles. "Waffle house."

His smile widens when I sit up, and he stands to his full height. Even though I probably should, I don't shy away from him when I stand up and reach for the discarded pair of shorts that I took off last night. I feel his eyes on me as I pull them up my legs, but he doesn't say anything.

I toss my hair into a messy ponytail and step in front of him. "I'm sorry I ignored your call. I wanted to answer. But it was an instinct to handle it on my own."

Austin pulls me into his chest and wraps me in a hug. I welcome the warmth and the familiar smell of cinnamon that always seems to linger on him.

"We'll work on it," he promises. My heart clenches.

He lets me go, and I excuse myself so I can use the bathroom and brush my teeth. When I finish up, I venture into the kitchen and stop in my tracks when I witness the array of plastic containers and styrofoam cups, the familiar Waffle House logo stitched across them.

"You want a waffle?" Savannah asks, syrup dripping from her chin.

Beside her, Austin laughs, and another piece of my heart falls and lands at his feet.

I take a seat and my mouth waters. After unintentionally skipping yet another meal, I happily indulge in the greasy bacon and pecan waffle that Austin bought for me.

Savannah cracks jokes while we eat, and I find it a little easier to smile when Austin joins in.

Well, until we finish eating and I inform Savannah and Austin about mom's whereabouts. Even though it kills me to do so, I tell them about the drugs and the ultimatum, and try my best to ignore the pang of anger that zips through me when Savannah's face falls.

Austin sits quietly, concern and a hint of anger etched across his face.

"So, she's not coming back?" Savannah asks warily.

"No," I state firmly. "Not when she's doing illegal drugs. When she gets clean, then she can come back."

Savannah frowns. "What makes you think she'll stay away so easily?"

I rub my temples. "She probably won't," I admit. "I'll probably have to have the locks changed."

"I'll do it for you," Austin chimes.

I purse my lips and nod.

I look at Sav and pointedly ask her, "Are you okay with all of this?"

She shrugs. "It's the only option. You shouldn't have gone to Dina's alone, though. You know how she is, especially when she's high."

"I know, but I couldn't exactly take you along with me, now could I?"

Savannah sighs. "I'm gonna go to my room. Thanks for breakfast Austin."

I run my hands across my face and groan. Taking a deep breath, I jump up and begin clearing the table, shoving the empty plastic containers into the to-go bag.

"Aria," Austin says. "Sit down for a minute."

I shake my head. "I have to clean this up," I say instead.

I shove the bag into the trash can and ignore the sound of Austin's chair scraping against linoleum.

He steps around me and gently backs me into the counter, arms on either side of my body caging me in. I keep my chin down, avoiding his gaze. "Hey, look at me," he says gently.

I do. "What?" I murmur.

"I'm sorry you had to see that last night."

I shake my head wearily.

"You're doing the right thing. You and Savannah shouldn't have to be around that kind of stuff."

"I know," I sigh, looking down.

"Aria," he rasps. He reaches forward and tilts my chin up towards him. "You don't have to brush this aside and ignore the way it makes you feel. You're allowed to be hurt and angry."

"I know," I murmur again.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but before he can I ask, "What did you do? When your mother..."

He sighs. "I was angry. Confused. Tried to get her the help she needed, but she didn't want it. I eventually saw a therapist. They suggested I write her letters, so I did. I don't know if she ever read them."

"How do you feel now?"

"I'm not sure," he says honestly. "I'm still trying to figure that out."

My breath hitches. Austin clears his throat. "You still up for that date tomorrow, or do you want to reschedule?"

"No," I rush. "No, I want to go. I think I need to get out of this house for a little bit, too. It's all I've been looking forward to."

He smirks. "When you called out and didn't answer my call, I started to think you were ghosting me."

"I'm sorry," I sigh. "I just needed to.. do that on my own. I think a part of me knew she wasn't going to leave with me. I didn't want anyone else to see that."

Austin squeezes me into a hug. I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his sweatshirt.

"I'm here. If you need me, you have me," he says quietly.

"Thank you," I whisper.

"You coming into work tonight?" he asks.

I groan. "I probably should, huh?"

Austin chuckles. "Gonna be a busy night. Think you can handle it?"

I pull back from his embrace and raise an eyebrow at him. "What do you think?"

He smirks and rakes his gaze down my frame. His stare lingers on my bare legs, and my cheeks flush crimson. "Yeah, you can handle it."

——

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