"Do you think I'll ever cross paths with him again, Mr. Terrip?" I ask, the question tasting bitter on my tongue, making me want to vanish into the mist.
It's been ten days. Ten days filled with restless thoughts about him. Ten days of wrestling with myself to push away the memory of his sharp tongue and abrasive mannerisms.
"Who are you referring to?" Mr. Terrip replies, eyebrows raised, and I suppress the urge to toss a book at him.
"Albuquerque, the turkey," I say flatly, watching as a chuckle escapes him.
"Forget it, I must be losing my mind," I mutter, shaking my head in disbelief.
"Crazy? You might have been that way for a while," he jests, and I shoot him a warning look, finger pointed like a pretend gun.
"Well, on that note, I'm off," I say, gathering my book for the night.
"See you tomorrow, Azalea," he calls out as we exit.
I walk beside him as he secures the bookstore. Once the door locks with a satisfying click, we part ways silently.
"Where’s your ride?" he asks, voice carrying as I begin to step away.
I wince, forcing a smile. "I walked."
"I told you that wasn’t a good idea," he chides, shaking his head.
"Goodbye!" I call back, and I glimpse him dismiss my choice with a disappointed sigh.
He acts as if I live miles away, not just a short walk from here.
This morning, I woke with a restless energy, the kind that pulls me outdoors, so I chose to walk. Somehow, the rhythm of my steps feels more grounding than the hum of an engine.
Although, this was my first walk to the bookstore since the accident.
Maybe that’s why my knee aches, a dull throbbing that hums beneath the surface.
I arrive home to find both my parents present.
God, please let this be a good day.
Entering the house, I keep my gaze low, footsteps light as I cross the living room. My eyes catch the sight of several empty Jack Daniels bottles scattered on the coffee table. I shut them tightly, forcing my mind to conjure the image of this room before everything fell apart.
Fresh flowers in a crystal vase graced that table once. Maybe a few glossy magazines, their pages full of promise and light.
I should have stopped there, but I didn’t.
A child's sanctuary should be their father’s arms—safe, warm, unwavering. Instead, mine have become a source of dread.
The sharp scent of alcohol hits me first, making my stomach twist. Then, his hand clamps onto the back of my shirt with a grip that sends shivers of panic racing down my spine.
He yanks me toward him as if I’m burning.
The collar of my shirt tightens around my neck, constricting breath, squeezing like a noose.
"I -I'm sorry," I stammer, swallowing hard, my voice barely a whisper. His fingers release me suddenly, and he shoves me back.
My knee buckles beneath me, and I fall, landing hard against the edge of the coffee table.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a Jack Daniels bottle teetering, then clattering to the floor in shards, its dark contents seeping onto the polished wood.
Fear wraps tight around my heart, dragging it down to my feet.
The metallic clink of a belt unbuckling rings out, making my eyes fill with tears that refuse to stay put.
"Look at me," his voice commands, low and heavy.
I hesitate, then lift my gaze to meet his. His belt snaps back into place, and a flicker of relief stirs inside me.
"You took him from us," he slurs, venom dripping from every word.
I bite my lip, fighting back a sob that makes my chest ache with grief.
"I know," I whisper, voice cracked and trembling. "I know I did."
Does he think I don’t already carry that weight every waking moment?
"You were the last face he ever saw," he continues, voice rough, "the last thing he looked at was the person who killed him."
The hollow pit inside me deepens with each painful word.
"Go upstairs," his tone hardens. His hand grips my arm tightly, dragging me along.
Panic flares in my chest as he pulls me past my room.
He stops before Jake’s door—the door I haven’t dared cross since the accident.
"Please, Daddy," I sob, "Please don’t."
He pushes open the door, and the silence inside swallows me whole. I don’t hold back the waves of grief that rise, tears spilling freely.
"You’re the reason he’s not here," he snarls close to my ear.
"Please, let me go," I beg, struggling futilely against his grasp.
The pain burns deeper than any bruises or scars.
"Think about what you did," he spits, shoving my arm aside with force that nearly sends me sprawling.
"You destroyed this family. Do you understand that?" He slams the door shut behind him.
Click. Locked.
A fresh wave of terror crashes over me.
I scramble to my feet, clutching the doorknob, twisting and pulling in desperation, but it refuses to budge.
The weight of guilt crushes me, and I collapse, tears pouring as if the pain might wash me away.
This is worse than any blow my father could land.
Back against the door, I peek through my damp hair at the room beyond.
It’s frozen in time, just as I left it.
Except now, a suffocating silence reigns, pressing into my ears, deafening.
The trophies, photographs, and jerseys—silent witnesses to Jake’s talent and spirit—seem to stare accusingly, reminding me of everything I lost.
And of what I took from the world.
I curl up on the floor, the raw ache inside me spreading like wildfire.
Outside, the muffled sounds of the house fade away, leaving me alone with my grief and the ghosts of the past.
In this heavy silence, I make a silent promise—to find a way through the darkness, to heal and to honor Jake’s memory, no matter how impossible it seems right now.