Dealing With Trouble

CHAPTER 11?

As he held me, I wanted to hit him, to hurt him like he had hurt us, so I raised my hand. Then I went completely still. Fear took over, and all I could do was stand there as he smirked at me in the same way Moby smirked at Jeremaih.

"Were you going to hit me?" he asked. "Megan, that's not like you. You're not much of a fighter."

What happened next was almost too fast to process. He let go of my wrist, his face almost purple, and slapped me in one swift motion. My skin was red-hot from the pain and embarrassment. Tears flowed from my eyes, not because I was in pain, but because I was shocked and angry. He seemed to have spent years establishing the rules, motioning to hit me but never actually doing so. Then he changed them to mine.

His eyes widened unexpectedly. "I'm so sorry," he apologized, his voice breaking. "I apologize, Megan. I didn't mean to do it." He knelt in front of me and wrapped his arms around my legs. As he sobbed at my feet, he reached for Mom's hand and took it. "I'm just terrified of losing both of you. I adore you. I'm not sure what I'd do without you. You'll never leave me."

My body remained motionless as his tears soaked into my skirt. My mind screamed, "Get away!" but my heart was drawn to him, broken by his tears. We must have waited for hours before moving. He eventually wiped his eyes and went upstairs, leaving us in the kitchen. My gaze met Mom's, expecting her to be defeated, but instead she moved toward me, her hand cupping my still-sore cheek.

"Get ready," she instructed. "We'll leave when the time is right."

I just stared at her for a split second. This wasn't the first time we'd attempted to abandon Dad. We'd usually stay in a hotel until Dad calmed down, at which point he'd feed us an apology and we'd be right back where we started. But the moment Mom contacted Layla, I knew it was over. I suppose something good came from that night; it was the impetus Mom needed to leave.

***

"There was no one, "Dad said. "Just another one of those scam callers."

More often than not, Mom would leave it at this, but very occasionally, there was a fight within her spoiling to be had. "I thought I saw the name Jess on the screen." But there was doubt in her expression. Uncertainty. She was used to second guessing herself.

"Come on, Lor," Dad said, "don't be paranoid." It was his go-to word whenever we said or did something he didn't agree with. You're irrational. Insane. Paranoid.

I looked between them, my food untouched, my appetite lost. I was an invisible presence during these conversations, rarely seen or heard. It was easier that way.

"It started with a J," Mom said, her voice even. Calm. "Scam callers aren't saved in your contacts."

Dad put his fork down and looked at her. "Do you know how crazy you sound right now? I don't even know any other women. You get so irrational about any female friendships / make, /ve stopped trying."

My mouth fell open, but nothing came out. There were so many Times when / wanted to defend my mother, when I couldn't see things the way my father saw them, but speaking out made me seen. Heard. I didn't want that.

"That's because I don't think it's fair you're allowed to be friends with the opposite s*x but I'm not," she said.

"You know what I think? I think you're projecting." He looked up then, his expression cold. "You're probably cheating, and you feel guilty so you're trying to accuse me of something." He rose to his feet, knuckles to the table, and stared at her.

It felt like slow motion watching her face fall. My heart pounded like a war drum. It was impossible to know what would happen once the fuse had been lit. SomeTimes it fizzled out, someTimes it exploded in our faces.

Mom grabbed my hand beneath the table, squeezing it tight as if it gave her the strength to speak. "Forget I mentioned it. I must have read it wrong."

Dad sat back down, slowly, and spent the rest of the meal talking to me while giving my mother the silent treatment

During dessert, Layla and Taky go over some of the house rules now that we've settled in, like chores and allowances. The chores work on a schedule basis, which can be found in the kitchen, and I will receive a weekly allowance, the same as Dane and Olly. It's a welcome surprise-I'd been planning on paying for my lessons with Jeremaih using my savings from the ice cream parlor where I worked back home, but now I can use this, instead.

The twins' curfew is one a.m., but Mom insists on keeping mine at eleven p.m., the same as at home.

"Oh come on," Layla exclaims. "She's old enough to stay out past eleven if she's old enough to enlist, get married, and have kids."

"It's all right," I say. I've never minded the early curfew because I rarely stay out past eleven o'clock anyway. Jamie and I would finish hanging out by nine, and I'd be back in bed by nine thirty to begin my Buffy marathon.

Besides, I know the early curfew helps Mom sleep better, even if it is a little draconian. She's always assumed that if I don't stay out late, I won't meet and fall in love with a boy like my father. I don't have the heart to tell her that the boys she's talking about don't exist only in the dark.

Later that night, as I'm getting ready for bed, I walk by Dane's bedroom—the second door on the left—and notice moonlight streaming in through the open doors leading to his balcony. He's sitting on his bed, eyes closed, strumming his guitar quietly.

He says, "Hey." He grins and turns slightly, midstrum. "Do you enjoy playing?"

He hands me the guitar when I nod. It feels heavy in my hands, but somehow right, as if I've clawed back a small piece of home. I begin strumming a melody, nothing specific, just a collection of chords that complement one another. I've never been particularly musically inclined, but I taught myself guitar from a YouTube video three years ago as a distraction and have dabbled ever since.

After a while, he asks, "How are you feeling? It must be strange not seeing your father."

I continue strumming, but my heart begins to beat twice as fast. "It's difficult."

"I get it," he says, leaning back against the wall, hands clasped behind his head, and watching my fingers brush against the strings. "My parents divorced a few years ago. She lived nearby for a while before meeting her new husband and moving to Alaska. It was awful going from seeing her frequently to never seeing her."

"Do you see her much these days?"

"Never." His pupils dilate. "I suppose she's too preoccupied with her new life to think about us." Perhaps it's the way the bedside lamp reflects in his eyes, but they've started to water. He clears his throat and nods at the guitar I'm holding. "You're welcome to keep that one." He nods to the opposite side of his room, where several acoustic guitars are arranged against the wall. "I've got plenty to keep me occupied."

"I appreciate it." I stand up and return to my room, where I spend the next fifteen minutes playing.

The longer I play, the harder it is to find enjoyment in it, to forget about the Times I'd be playing in my room, only to be interrupted by the screaming downstairs. Eventually, I put the guitar to the side and don't look at it again.