I don't go home.

I can't.

Instead—like a coward—I walk to my truck and get in and sit there. I put the radio on so that my racing thoughts aren't the only thing occupying the tense silence. My eyes flicker to the side mirror and I have a perfect view of the entrance of the bar where less than twenty-four hours ago I was lying on the ground in a pool of my own blood.

I press the button to lower the window and lean out to look at my reflection in the side mirror. My eye is swollen, the area underneath the socket dark and discolored. My face is covered in red and pink marks. A thick line of dried blood goes vertically down my bottom lip, making it look like it's been cut in half.

I slide my phone out of my pocket and stare down at the screen. I can't go home. At the same time, I know I can't keep hiding this from my parents. My whole face is fucked to the point where it no longer even looks like me. There's a giant cut going down my side that probably needed stitches and will probably now get infected because of that. There are bruises all over my stomach and I can't help but walk with a little limp.

No lie can cover that up.

I unlock the screen of my phone, ignoring all the notifications. I find the contact I'm after, and call. After only three rings, a frantic voice is on the other end.

"Why the fuck didn't you answer my calls?" Ethan bursts out. "I'm been worried sick. Don't do that."

"Sorry," I breathe out. "I got beat up pretty bad."

"How bad?"

"Knife to the side. Black eye. Few kicks in the stomach," I sigh. "The usual."

"You okay?" he asks.

I shrug. "Been better. I went to . . . a friend's house. They fixed me up."

Ethan scoffs. "What friend? I'm literally your only one."

"Funny," I mutter. "Just some chick from school."

"You got a girl to fix you up?" Ethan asks. "And to think all this time I thought you might be gay."

I hear him laugh on the other end and roll my eyes. "Fuck off. I'm fine but I don't know what the hell I'm going to tell my parents."

I lift up my elbow and rest it on the open window, running a hand through my hair.

"Just come up with some crap," Ethan says.

"I have a swollen eye the size of my fist," I say. "And not to mention the knife wound running down my whole hip."

"Assholes," he mutters. "Playing dirty. They know it's cowardly to use knives. You catch their faces?"

"Yeah." I lick my bottom lip and feel the bump of the split lip beneath my tongue. "One of them was that new guy, usually fights on Fridays. Lazy eye."

"Really?" Ethan sounds surprised. "He never seemed like the type."

"Yeah, well, he definitely was the type when he held me down while that other guy was messing up my face."

"The others?"

"Just two others. Adam, you know him by his nickname, Hawk, and the weird guy with the bleached hair." Ethan's silent for a moment and I sigh, knowing that something is on his mind and he's hiding it from me. "Spit it out, Ethan."

"Well . . . I was thinking if maybe Carl was the one to tell them to beat you up?" he offers.

"No. Carl doesn't play dirty. He would also want the satisfaction of seeing me beaten in person. He's not one to play around like this."

"Tyler," Ethan sighs. "What the hell have you got yourself into?"

I lean my head back against the seat and throw my arm over my eye, blocking the sun from hitting my face. "I don't know. I really don't know."

"Have you decided what to tell your parents?"

"No," I say. "I can't tell them the truth, Ethan. I know you're going to say that it's the perfect opportunity and that I should use it, but I can't. This is the worst time for them to know. I can't let them get police involved or try to fix this themselves. It will become a complete mess that we'll all be stuck in. We won't be able to get out of it. This is my fault, I got myself into this in the first place. I now need to get myself out."

Ethan's silent on the other end and I accidentally bite down on the cut on my lip.

"I have an idea," he says. "It's a stupid idea and your parents will hate me even more than they already do. But it's something."

"Something is all I need."

***

The smell of food floats out from the kitchen as I walk into the house later on in the day. I gently place my sports bag down on the floor and lock the front door behind me. The clatter of plates and cutlery comes through to where I stand in the foyer.

I straighten my back and walk towards the kitchen where I hear my parents. I grit my teeth and force myself to walk with no limp and keep my hands well away from my stomach where I want to clench them over the wound hiding beneath. I stop in the doorway and wait till they notice me.

My dad is a working man—a lawyer for large companies—and he takes his job seriously. He isn't home a lot. And when he is, I don't want him to be. He's constantly watching me, making sure I don't do something reckless or stupid. Ever since he found out that I was doing underground fighting in an illegal circuit he became overbearing.

I understand why. I've always understood. But then I had to lie and say that it was over, I was done fighting and that I was out. But he still doesn't trust me.

I look at him sitting at the dining table with his work suit still on and a newspaper in his hands. That irritates me. How plain and normal he looks. How he looks as though there isn't a single thing wrong with him.

Then there's my mom. She's standing by the stove, setting some vegetables into a pot of boiling water to cook. She has a routine for each of her days, a reason to be in each place at each time. She has a purpose.

I feel like the odd one out in the family.

They have their roles.

And then there's me.

I stand there like an outcast in the corner. I watch them interact and understand each other perfectly. And then I wonder where I fit. What my role is. If I even have a role. It took me a while to understand that I didn't. There is no place for me in this family. I am forever the odd one out, the person sitting to the side and cast away like a shadow.

My mom looks at me first, turning from the stove and wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her brown hair—which is nothing like mine—is tied up in a messy bun at the back of her head. She stops dead when she sees me, taking in my face and the swollen eye. Her eyes widen and her lips part in shock.

"Tyler!" she cries out and I can't tell if she's concerned or horrified. I settle for a mix of the two. "What happened to you?"

She comes rushing forward and places one hand on my shoulder, the other gently on my cheek, just beneath the injury. Her face is scrunched up in concern and I take that moment to look at her features. Large eyes, sharp nose, thin lips. Her hands shake as they touch my skin.

I want those large eyes to be the same as mine. That round nose to be the same as mine. Those thin lips to be the same as mine.

But they're not.

"Well?" she snaps. "Who did this to you?"

My eyes move away from my mom and I stare at my dad who sits at the table, the newspaper cast aside now. The coffee mug in front of him sits as a block between the two of us. His eyes meet mine and he knows.

He knows. He knew when he found that bloodied shirt. Perhaps he's always known.

I turn away from his unnerving stare and meet my mom's eyes instead.

"Tyler." She says it with finality.

Ethan's words play around in my head. I was horrified with his suggestion to begin with, but he talked me into it. Now I wish he hadn't. I look over at my dad again and gulp. He expects me to tell her—to tell him—and admit what I've been doing this whole time. That I lied to both of them and kept fighting because I couldn't get away.

Maybe they would understand.

No.

They would have understood if I had told them that very day Carl said I had to keep going. But I've let this go on too far. It's been months and here I am, still fighting and lying through my teeth.

"Ethan," I say. "Ethan did it to me."

"Ethan?" My mom sounds confused. "Why would he do this to you? I thought you were friends."

"I guess not," I mutter. "I went to his place without telling him beforehand. He was selling some drugs to a friend, and me showing up messed it all up. He lost his money and the drugs. Beat me up for it."

My mom looks horrified. I swallow loudly and glance over at my dad. He just looks back. I can see that he's disappointed. He sighs and shakes his head a little at me. In response, I glare at him. I clench my hands into fists at my sides. I want to scream at him, tell him that he doesn't have the right to be angry at me, that it isn't even his place.

That he's not even my dad.

My eyes slide over to the woman in front of me.

That she's not even my mom.

A wave of sadness consumes me, and I take a step back, placing one hand on the wall beside me.

"Well, we have to call the police," my mom says. "This is assault and not to mention that he was having a drug deal!"

I shake my head. "No. You don't need to call the police. Really, it's fine. Everything will just become a mess if we try. I won't go near him again."

"Heather," my dad says. "I think we all just need to take a breather. Getting the police involved could be bad."

"Have you seen his face?" She turns to my dad. "He looks like he's been beaten to a pulp."

I lower my head and glance over at my dad from the corner of my eye. He meets my gaze and shakes his head. "We don't need to call police. We'll sort this out."

We continue to stare and I'm sure he's expecting a 'thank you' or some sort of appreciation for what he's just done. But I don't give him one. I just close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall, blending into the background.

Just like every other day.