“It’s Christmas break.”
“Okay, then maybe I want to stay here.” I back up to the chair and sit down. I tip my head forward and rub the sides of my temples with my fingers. “Fuck.” I have no idea what to do. I don’t want to be in this God damn room anymore, but leaving means facing the world, myself, my father, Callie.
“If Kayden wants to stay here,” Doug interrupts. “Then he can.”
“I’m sure as hell not paying for it,” my mother snaps venomously. She reaches into her purse and takes out the car keys. “I’m signing you out first thing tomorrow morning and then you’re coming home—that is, unless you want to fork out your own money.”
She clutches the keys in her hands and storms out the door, taking my hope with her. I wonder why she’s doing it. Why she’d put me in here for barely over a week and then suddenly want me out. There’s got to be something going on.
Whatever it is, I don’t want to go home. If I do, there’s a good chance my father’s going to finish what he started.
Doug sighs as he returns his pen to his pocket, and then he turns to me. “Well, that didn’t go so well.”
“It never does with her.” I shove the sleeves of my long-sleeved shirt up and rest my arms on my knees. “There’s no use trying to fight her on anything. She always wins.”
He grabs a chair from the corner and positions it in front of my chair. He doesn’t bother taking his jacket off, which means he’s probably not staying long. “Does she win fights with your father?” he asks as he lowers himself into the chair.
Warning flags pop up all over in my head. I know the drill.
Lie. Lie. Lie.
“What do you mean? What fights?”
He crosses his leg over his knee and the bottom of his pants ride up. He’s wearing these socks with smiley faces on them. “Your mother and father never fight?”
I shake my head because it’s the truth. They really don’t because my mother is a yes-dear kind of person. “No, not really.”
His brows pucker and I get the feeling I might have said something wrong. “Kayden, what’s your dad like?”
My fingertips automatically jerk inward and my nails slice at my skin. “He’s… he’s a dad. A normal dad.”
“Do you have a good relationship with him?” he questions. “Because I find it kind of strange that he hasn’t visited you once.”
“Our relationship’s fine.” My throat feels thick with tar. “He just works a lot of hours.”
His hand whisks across the paper as he writes something in his notebook and then proceeds into the conversation with caution. “Has he ever hit anyone in your family?”
It is the perfect opportunity to tell him everything: about my life, about the pain, about the unworthiness. But it feels like betrayal and I realize that I’m basically my father’s puppet. It’s a terrifying and confusing conclusion, like the strings that attach me to him have wound into knots. “I-I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” He’s skeptical. “Are you sure?”
I nod my head as I stare at the floor in front of me. There’s a pink stain on it and a lot of the linoleum is cracked and chipped. “I really don’t know.”
He evaluates me, then takes a card out of his front pocket and extends his hand toward me with it between his fingers. “I want to see you first thing Monday. My office address is on the back.” He flips over the card and shows me where the address is written in his handwriting. “My number’s also on the front. If you ever need to talk about anything, you can call me anytime.”
I take the card, realizing that committing to his request means committing to more than just a visit. It means opening up doors I nailed shut a long time ago and facing all the demons I locked inside. It means telling him everything, even about my dad. And then what? What if I actually do? Then what happens to my family? My mother? My father? Do I care? I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I think I’m the
“Okay, then maybe I want to stay here.” I back up to the chair and sit down. I tip my head forward and rub the sides of my temples with my fingers. “Fuck.” I have no idea what to do. I don’t want to be in this God damn room anymore, but leaving means facing the world, myself, my father, Callie.
“If Kayden wants to stay here,” Doug interrupts. “Then he can.”
“I’m sure as hell not paying for it,” my mother snaps venomously. She reaches into her purse and takes out the car keys. “I’m signing you out first thing tomorrow morning and then you’re coming home—that is, unless you want to fork out your own money.”
She clutches the keys in her hands and storms out the door, taking my hope with her. I wonder why she’s doing it. Why she’d put me in here for barely over a week and then suddenly want me out. There’s got to be something going on.
Whatever it is, I don’t want to go home. If I do, there’s a good chance my father’s going to finish what he started.
Doug sighs as he returns his pen to his pocket, and then he turns to me. “Well, that didn’t go so well.”
“It never does with her.” I shove the sleeves of my long-sleeved shirt up and rest my arms on my knees. “There’s no use trying to fight her on anything. She always wins.”
He grabs a chair from the corner and positions it in front of my chair. He doesn’t bother taking his jacket off, which means he’s probably not staying long. “Does she win fights with your father?” he asks as he lowers himself into the chair.
Warning flags pop up all over in my head. I know the drill.
Lie. Lie. Lie.
“What do you mean? What fights?”
He crosses his leg over his knee and the bottom of his pants ride up. He’s wearing these socks with smiley faces on them. “Your mother and father never fight?”
I shake my head because it’s the truth. They really don’t because my mother is a yes-dear kind of person. “No, not really.”
His brows pucker and I get the feeling I might have said something wrong. “Kayden, what’s your dad like?”
My fingertips automatically jerk inward and my nails slice at my skin. “He’s… he’s a dad. A normal dad.”
“Do you have a good relationship with him?” he questions. “Because I find it kind of strange that he hasn’t visited you once.”
“Our relationship’s fine.” My throat feels thick with tar. “He just works a lot of hours.”
His hand whisks across the paper as he writes something in his notebook and then proceeds into the conversation with caution. “Has he ever hit anyone in your family?”
It is the perfect opportunity to tell him everything: about my life, about the pain, about the unworthiness. But it feels like betrayal and I realize that I’m basically my father’s puppet. It’s a terrifying and confusing conclusion, like the strings that attach me to him have wound into knots. “I-I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” He’s skeptical. “Are you sure?”
I nod my head as I stare at the floor in front of me. There’s a pink stain on it and a lot of the linoleum is cracked and chipped. “I really don’t know.”
He evaluates me, then takes a card out of his front pocket and extends his hand toward me with it between his fingers. “I want to see you first thing Monday. My office address is on the back.” He flips over the card and shows me where the address is written in his handwriting. “My number’s also on the front. If you ever need to talk about anything, you can call me anytime.”
I take the card, realizing that committing to his request means committing to more than just a visit. It means opening up doors I nailed shut a long time ago and facing all the demons I locked inside. It means telling him everything, even about my dad. And then what? What if I actually do? Then what happens to my family? My mother? My father? Do I care? I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I think I’m the
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