— Chapter 63 —

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Late in the afternoon, a paling sunset was the only light fluttering into my father's otherwise bleak and gloomy house.

My toes curled against cold timber flooring. Sitting on the ground a few paces from the couch, I had my arms wrapped around the knees I'd pressed close to my chest. My spine was glued to the wall. My chin trembled, my lips pursed, my hair fell over my eyes. Dread pulsed in my veins to the rhythm of a fist pounding against the other side of the front door.

"It's me," a voice called. "Elliot, please—just open up."

Noah continued to beat away at splintered wood.

I thought the hinges would come loose if he kept going. He'd been at it for a little while now. I still hadn't found it in myself to face him.

"I know what happened," he told me, and a sound followed which I assumed was his forehead hitting the door. For a few moments, the banging stopped. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, it wasn't your fault. Please just let me in."

He started hitting the door again just as my father was emerging from the hallway, half-dressed in boxer briefs, calf-length socks and a thin singlet. "Christ's sake," he muttered, rubbing his dark eyelids. "The nerve of this bastard."

My teeth sank into my lip as he stopped to look through the peephole.

Annoyed, he asked me, "You gonna answer it?"

I kept my gaze trained on the dry flooring, my mouth pressed firmly shut. I didn't know what to say—I didn't know if I could speak without pain firing through my jaw. I'd been holding an ice pack to it for the last half hour.

Malcom mussed his hair and stepped away from the door. Noah's heavy knocking, though sporadic, seemed to have slowed.

My father gave me a look.

"You can give me the silent treatment all you want but one of us has to go out there eventually." Quieter, he made sure to snicker, "If I do it, it'll be with a shotgun."

I didn't believe him. I wasn't going to say that out loud, though. Not if it would cause a fight. Not if it would give me more bruises that I didn't need.

The Stray Dog called for me again. "Elliot, just open the door. Please."

I don't know what to say to you. I don't want you to see me like this. I was trying to pick through the myriad of responses my mind was conjuring. It's safer for us both if you keep your distance.

Walking off to the kitchen somewhere, Malcom scratched his face and grumbled.

"Goddamn millennials."

Noah never left that night. I never got up off the floor. I listened to him knock and knock, and when he couldn't knock anymore, he collapsed against his side of the door and smoked. I could smell it from where I was sitting. And he just... spoke to me.

Whether he knew I was listening or not, Noah talked to me. Quiet apologies mostly, but a few ramblings on his trains of thought here and there, some about his time in New York. I wondered if he was doing it on purpose—if he was doing his best to keep me company because he knew I'd be lonely in the unforgiving silence of my own house.

I listened to him talk and fell apart in my own skin. The cries that left my lips were suppressed by the fabric of my own sleeves.

By midnight, the speaking and the knocking were long gone. With a blanket draped tight over my shoulders, it was then and only then that I finally found myself opening the door—if only to check that Noah had finally left.

He hadn't.

Instead, he was sitting with his legs sprawled out on the porch and his chin tilted up, head resting against the wall for support. A box of Marlboros was by his hand with four crushed cigarettes.

He was asleep. I couldn't fathom how, but he was sleeping.

I hesitated. I didn't know what to do; I was too afraid to wake him up. And when I found the nerve to graze my knuckles against the crest of his cheek, I quickly realised that Noah's skin was icy-cold.

That night, I enveloped him in the warmth of my blanket and disappeared back into the house. In the morning, Noah was gone.

He didn't come back.

"There's toast in the kitchen," my father's voice echoed through the house. "At least eat something for breakfast."

I didn't have the heart to tell him that everything I'd tried to eat in the last week had tasted like cardboard. And that whatever I could force down... was usually upchucked in the bathroom a half-hour later.

I didn't have the heart to say anything at all.

Malcolm called again, "I'll be home before six."

With a jingle of keys and the quiet thud of a door being shut, my father left again, probably to go drink with the other retirees he so often entertained himself with. My day was another one of staying home. A day spent staring at the same four walls I grew up in—only I never remembered them being this bare.

Has my room always been this colorless?

White walls. A wooden dresser and nightstand. A small, single bed, with one navy pillow and a thin blanket to keep me warm. A few photos, but none that I'd paid attention to in a very long time.

Sprawled out on the lumpy bed, I stared at the ceiling and tried to find the energy to do anything. To think coherent thoughts. To blink without remembering Han's gun so vividly. To stand up on my own two feet and not double over in pain.

It was all so surreal.

Being back in the house. Being back, even though I'd convinced myself that Malcom and I were done. But I figured that's just how these things went. Parents fought with their kids, then sat in wait for those same kids to come running back when the world fought them too.

After all, blood was thicker than water. Chains like that never severed, no matter how hard you tried to break them.

My phone buzzed for the umpteenth time in the last week, lost somewhere in the sheets. I stuck my arm out to find it—only for a pained hiss to leave my lips once I realised it was the same shoulder that I'd burned.

Of all the wounds on my body, the burn was the most horrible. Because, unlike the bruises, it still hurt the same as the night it was first inflicted. I couldn't move my arm without my raw flesh straining under the gauze, jolts of pain turning my vision red.

(5) Unread Messages From:

(2) Missed Calls From:

(1) Voicemail From:

Aside from calling in sick, I hadn't answered a call or text message since that night. I'd pretty much fallen off the map. Because... well, what was I meant to say?

Noah's apartment was destroyed under my watch. I rolled over and let my ass get handed to me on a silver platter, and instead of confessing it all to the person who could do something about it, I tucked my tail between my legs and ran.

I ran like a coward.

It was all my fault.

I never should have trusted Sage. I should've found another way. This entire mess happened because I gave her the benefit of the doubt, and it came back to hurt the one person I was trying to keep safe.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I buried my face in my knees and wrapped my arms around my legs, peering to stare at the screen of my phone. Pale-brown hair fell in messy curtains down my cheeks.

I couldn't face them again, especially not with the guilt of knowing that Noah's home was destroyed. Everything was ruined because of me.

I couldn't imagine looking him in the eye after this. I was a horrible person. I'd always been a horrible person. With all the graffiti, and running from police, and humiliating my father. I lied to people. I didn't work hard enough. I was probably about to be fired after all these days off sick.

I was a liability to everyone. I ruined everything I touched. And I deserved everything I got that night, because in the end... it was just fate forcing me to reap what I sowed.

So I couldn't bring myself to open his voicemail.

I tapped through the other messages. A lot of them had accumulated over the last few days. Guilt for not replying had been chewing away at me for a while now.

Angela:

Her words were a kindness I didn't think I deserved.

Chains:

I tossed the phone down on the bed somewhere and let out a heavy sigh.

Nobody owed me anything. I didn't deserve anything.

I was getting ready to crawl under the covers and wallow in the darkness for a few more hours when a knock on the front door drew me from my thoughts.

I huffed the hair out of my face and frowned. I wasn't expecting anybody.

What did I do wrong this time?

Lugging myself out of the bed, I used the walls as support to keep me upright. Considering the ache in my spine, I couldn't stop myself from hunching over... and when I blinked, I could envision exactly how that ache got there to begin with.

Bruises littered my torso like little minefields of pain—one wrong move and my brain went through the shredder. Not that the crimson headache wasn't doing a good job of that already.

I stopped at the door and drew in a breath. I tried to make myself look presentable. Standing up straighter, fixing my hair, masking the aches with an unbreakable expression... anything that could make my own gloominess look less obvious.

I just about had a heart attack once it became clear who was standing at the other side of that door.

The other three members of a band that hadn't played since high school—Riven. Nate. James. Standing on my porch and grinning in amazement as if it were a damn miracle I was alive. Or Nate and Riven, at least. James never really smiled.

Bewildered, I got out, "What are you guys doing here?"

"Mate, are you kidding?" Riven laughed breathily, "Where the hell have you been? We were starting to think you'd been murdered."

The choice of words made me swallow hard.

Nate took the liberty of explaining. "Your friend said you weren't feeling good—and the three of us, being the amazing guardian angels that we are, had to come make sure you weren't dead."

Riven tilted his head and joked, "I've seen healthier-looking corpses."

Nate smacked his friend's arm. "Dude."

James—who'd been leaning against the doorframe—sighed at the two of them. He held up the white bag he was holding and looked down to meet my gaze. His eyes, the enigmatic voids forever devouring light in their entirety, continued to betray nothing.

"We brought food," he uttered. "Can we come in?"

No.

No. I didn't want anyone in the house. I didn't want anyone here at all. I wanted to be safe, locked away, boxed inside the four white walls. Alone. Safe.

Instead, I wrapped my arms around my torso and stepped back from the door.

Come in.

I paid too much attention to their shoes crossing the boundary as the three of them stepped inside. In a soft tone, I requested, "Shoes off."

"I can't even remember the last time I stepped foot in this house," Nate commented, his gentle smile giving some warmth to an otherwise desolate space. "It looks exactly the same."

"Jesus, Eli, it's freezing in here," Riven pointed out, rubbing his hands together for emphasis. Finding the thermostat, he asked, "You still never turn this thing on?"

Nate echoed the notion. "It's warmer outside in the snow. Sure you're not running a fever?" He put his hand to my forehead to check.

I flinched away and quickly shook my head.

"Sorry," I told them. "I um, I didn't know anyone would be coming over."

Considering the state of the place, I would have cleaned. Or at least have picked up the empty beer cartons left scattered by my father. But the house looked hospitable enough considering that it wasn't a total mess for once.

James drew the curtains open, letting sunlight into the living room. I squinted.

"I left you like six messages!" Riven frowned from the kitchen. I saw him unraveling the bag of food he'd brought with him. "Did you drop your phone in the toilet again?"

"Must have," Nate said.

I deflected the question. "You guys brought food?"

Nate grinned and pulled out a container of what looked like a still-warm breakfast. "Oh yeah, I cooked. Riven wouldn't come pick me up unless I paid him in pancakes. So... pancakes. Syrup and everything."

"Bloody good pancakes," Riven added, tearing a chunk of airy goodness into his mouth. He called through the mouthful of food, "Hope you're hungry!"

James helped himself to digging through the kitchen cupboards, but not before gesturing to his cheek and telling Riven, "You have syrup on your face."

The bartender puffed his cheeks out to his friend. "Wanna lick it off?" he teased. "No? You sure?"

James rolled his eyes and shoved him away. Riven smirked.

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

While Nate got busy unloading the pancakes onto small plates for us, I found myself phasing in and out of the conversation—it was like white noise, and I just couldn't focus.

But my gaze never let up off James. He pulled a velvet-green box from the back of a shelf he was searching through and the sight of it made him pause... I dared to think I saw a small tug on his wine red lips. There was a kind of shimmer in his eyes that I couldn't understand.

Riven asked in disbelief, "You still keep that stuff around? Don't you ever get bored of it? It's like drinking dirt."

James shrugged. "Some of us have refined tastes."

"Says you." Nate prodded his finger to his friend's chest as he walked by. "I distinctly remember the mornings in senior year where you'd mix Red Bull with your coffee. Psychopath."

"Name-calling is so below you, Nate."

"Whatever you say, Jay."

While the two of them bickered, Riven loaded a plate of pancakes with maple syrup and slid it over to me. "Order up."

The porcelain plate full of food stared me in the face, warm syrup oozing over the light mounds of sweet pancakes. Its heavenly smell invaded the air. My stomach churned.

"I'm not really hungry," I mumbled, prodding the plate away with my forefinger. "You guys can have my share."

James gave me a look. "Full on cold toast?"

He nodded to the untouched plate of bread sitting abandoned on the counter. My breath hitched in my throat.

It was a guilt trip, even if he hadn't intended it to be. Because he'd been looking at me a certain way ever since he walked in—like I was a house of cards that would topple under a passing breeze.

So I dragged the plate back. I stuck my fork in the stack of pancakes and forced myself to take a mouthful despite the aching in my own stomach. The sickly-sweet syrup was reduced to bland muck on my tastebuds, food like velvet cardboard that grated down my throat.

Nate made this, I told myself with every mouthful, just eat it.

"It's good, right?" Riven chuckled.

I forced a nod.

"Nate, did you get the strings?" James asked. His back was to me as he poured hot water into two small cups of tea. The white suit shirt he was wearing fitted all too well, because I could just about see every muscle in his broad shoulders.

Where does he have to go dressed this classy? I wondered absently.

"You bet I did," Nate announced. He reached for the white bag. "Elliot, where's that guitar we got you in high school? Still have it?"

"Uh... yeah," I said, pulling myself from my thoughts. "It's in my closet, I think. Why?"

Riven, a fresh lollipop between his teeth, slugged his muscled arm over my shoulder as I got off my seat. "What do you mean why? Still off in your own world these days? Figures." He ruffled my hair and smiled.

Nate clarified for me. "I told you I'd stop by sometime to fix the chords on your guitar. Don't tell me you forgot."

James offered me the second teacup as the four of us walked to my bedroom—I took it with a grateful expression, steaming tea warming my shivering hands.

The first thing Nate did was open up my closet, digging around in the mess to find the guitar he'd been so excited to see. Riven sat himself down on the area rug. James leaned against the wall, and I sat quietly on my bed while the three of them had a conversation that I completely spaced out of.

I was painfully aware of the numbness in my legs, the fogginess of my own head, and my burn on the shoulder that I kept clutching in a protective habit.

"Alrighty, listen up," Nate said, his pointer finger in my direction. "These chords here? Indestructible. You snap 'em and I'll never let you touch another guitar ever again. Understood?"

I nodded earnestly.

"You swear?"

I put a hand to my heart. "Solemnly."

Riven snorted in amusement. Nate grinned and held up his wire cutters. "Good," he said, "Now pay attention. I'm going to teach you how to change the chords out."

"How are you just now learning how to do this?" frowned Riven, while Nate took a seat beside me on the ground. "We were a band for two years. Jay never taught you?"

Nate shrugged. "I usually changed them for him."

I took a distracted sip from James's tea.

It was a kick in the face. A dose of nostalgia, simmering on my tongue and sparkling like a thousand fireworks. A delicate scent filled my nose. My heart and soul warmed similar to sitting by a fireplace in a frigid winter, a feeling that made my muscles relax and my nerves calm.

The first time I ever tried Redwin's tea, it was James who'd made it for me. I could still remember how it made me feel back then. Warm, comforted... just like it did now. And no matter how many times I made it for myself, chasing more of that warmth and comfort, it never felt the same.

It always tasted better when James made it. He put a kind of care into it that I could never hope to replicate.

I found myself looking up at him.

I didn't expect him to be looking at me too.

The clicking of fingers in my face drew my attention. Nate, who'd already removed a few pins and chords, handed me the new roll of strings. "Focus, Little T, or we'll be here all day."

"Sorry," I stammered, quickly resting the teacup down on my nightstand. "You were saying?"

Nate explained how to take out the bridge pins—the six white pins that secured the ends of the strings to the guitar. He had a lot of patience while I tried to mimic his process, old chords scratching against my nimble fingertips.

"I don't remember your room being this empty," Riven mentioned while we worked, cherry-flavored lollipop resting between his fingers. "Didn't you used to have all those album posters? Photo-frames?"

"Oh yeah, the polaroids too," Nate remembered. Riven clapped his hands together at the memory, some kind of ah-ha! moment. "Remember? That wall had rows and rows of them—lights and everything."

I knew exactly what they were talking about. All the photos that I'd taken in the last two years of high school, from our best moments as a band to the precious memories I'd captured of the few friends I had. The same friends that were standing in my bedroom now.