Call It What You Want(57)

What did Bill say? I did my best to keep you out of it.

Anger swirls around the guilt and swallows it up. I put my key in the lock.

After the noise of the party and the close warmth of sharing space with Maegan, my house feels like a crypt. Mom kept her word and didn’t wait up. The only light on in the main level is the tiny light over the stove. I grab a bottle of Coke out of the refrigerator and press the pedal on the recycling bin to raise the lid.

There’s an empty bottle of wine sitting on top. It’s different from the one Mom was drinking the other day.

Huh.

I turn for the stairs in the dark. I kind of want a shower, but I want sleep more. It’s been a long night. The best thing about sleep is that I don’t need to think about anything.

My father’s bedroom door is open, his feeding pump making a low rhythmic clicking every few seconds. I don’t look in on him. Sometimes he’s just staring at the ceiling, and it freaks me out.

Mom’s door is closed.

Something must have happened tonight. While I was gone. Either a mess or an inexplicable panic attack or something she wouldn’t have wanted to deal with on her own. A new stab of guilt catches me under the ribs.

Not like I can do anything about it now. I walk past their bedrooms and into the darkness of my own, tilting the bottle of Coke back to take a sip.

Something solid slams into my midsection, hard. I choke on soda and cough. Another hit, and I double over. The bottle goes flying.

Then a fist cracks into my face. I go down. I’ve barely registered the impact of the floor—polished hardwood, thanks, Mom—before a booted foot kicks me right in the abdomen.

All the breath has left my body. My nose is burning from choked soda. Nothing hurts yet, but I feel the promise of pain. Any second now. It’ll come back with the oxygen. I remember from taking hits in lacrosse.

A hand grabs my collar and slams me into the floor again. I need to shout for my mother. She has to get out of the house. She has to call nine-one-one.

I can’t make a sound. I still can’t breathe.

Then a husky male voice speaks right into my face. “How’s it feel, Lachlan?”

Connor. It shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is.

Oxygen finally fights its way into my lungs, and every organ in my abdomen feels like it’s been rearranged. I want to curl in on myself, but he’s still got a fist gripping my collar. Painful little gasps are escaping my throat.

This is retaliation. He must know what I stole. I’m trying to get my brain to fire the right neurons so I can either punch him back or yell for help. His next hit could put me out.

But he doesn’t hit me again. He lets go and straightens, leaving me lying there on the floor.

“What were you doing at my house?” he demands.

“You—you invited me.” I make it to my knees, but the pain in my stomach keeps my forehead pressed to the floor. “How did you get in here?”

“I still have a key, you asshole.” He shifts his weight, and the sound makes me flinch. I’m ready for another kick.

It doesn’t come.

He’s not demanding his mother’s earrings. He’s not accusing me of theft.

“What were you doing there?” he says again. His voice is lower. Threatening.

“I ran into Callie. She mentioned it. Asked me to go.” I break off to wheeze. Connor waits, like some kind of hit man in a movie. “Samantha Day wanted to go, and she convinced me and Maegan to go with her.”

That must not be what he’s expecting—or maybe it’s too boring or too honest. He doesn’t hit me. He doesn’t say anything.

I can hear him breathing. Thinking.

Judging.

Oxygen has cleared my brain. I realize I’ve been drooling on the floor. Nice. I put a hand against the hardwood and push myself upright. The entire side of my face aches, and I touch a hand gingerly to my lip. Maybe I’ve been bleeding on the floor.

“Is this all you wanted?” I say. “To hit me back?”

“What’s the real reason you were there?”

“I just told you.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t trust you.” He’s got me there. In the dark, his mismatched eyes are shadowed and glaring. “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.”

I glare back at him. “You would’ve been doing me a favor.”

Those words hit him hard. I’m not sure how I can tell, but they do. He says nothing.

An intermittent beeping comes from the hallway. Be-beep. Be-beep. Be-beep.

Connor drops back a step. “What’s that?”

I should scare the shit out of him and tell him it’s an alarm system. “Dad’s feeding tube.”

He takes another step back. He’s not glaring now.

The beeping only means there’s a kink in the line, and it’s not like Dad will starve to death if I don’t go fix it. Depending on the night, I usually wait to see if Mom will get up and take care of it. But her door is closed, and that empty bottle of wine is probably guaranteeing she’s not waking up anytime soon.

I turn away from Connor and head into the hallway. I have no idea if he’s going to wait or follow me or leave altogether, and I really don’t care. I step into Dad’s room and click on the little nightlight beside his bed.

He’s awake and staring at the ceiling. His breathing is a little quick. I wonder if the beeping woke him up, or if it was the scuffle with Connor. Either way, his breathing has an anxious quality to it.