The dark circles under his eyes indicate he’s battling insomnia again. Mom said his mind races with everything that’s happened, trying to figure out where it went wrong or scrambling to discover a way to fix it. “Same as you. Just up.”
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Dad motions at the paper. “Job hunting.”
I nod, not sure what to say. Talking to Dad used to be easy. Very easy.
Back when he was younger, he used to train with my grandfather. It’s how Mom and Dad met. It’s all very romantic and love-storyish, and I adore every second of the gooey-eyed tale. He was a kickboxer, like me, and swept Mom, the trainer’s daughter, off her feet.
Dad practically raised Kaden and me in the gym. Kaden fell in love with boxing, then wrestling, then mixed martial arts. Me? I stuck with kickboxing and Dad admired that and me until I left my grandfather’s gym. Then he lost more respect for me when I gave it up altogether.
I bite the inside of my lip and slip into the kitchen, focusing on the scratched brown linoleum floor as I progress toward my father. “Any luck?”
He shakes his head and closes the paper. “Most everything is online now.”
I drop into the chair next to his and hug my knees to my chest. “Library then?” My uncle doesn’t believe in internet access.
“Yep.” Dad taps a beat onto the table. Eventually it loses the rhythm and spirals into a persistent drone. Is conversation with me painful for him or is it conversation in general?
“Kaden’s got a fight in three months,” I say. “He’s going pro.”
My brother will stare holes through me for a week because I told Dad this. I wasn’t supposed to know. I overheard him and Jax discussing it on the bus. For some reason, he wanted to keep it private, but I’m desperate to end the silence. “Odds are he’ll end up fighting one of the guys from Black Fire and you know they dominate in a stand-up fight.” But Kaden is a force of nature on the mat.
“He’s going to start fighting for money?”
“Yeah.” It would have been better if Kaden could have fought amateur for a few more years, gained some experience, but with money tight the lure of a prize is too strong.
Unable to stay still, Dad rolls the pencil on the table under his palm and never glances at me. “In other words, he’ll be fighting Matt?”
I flush—everywhere. Heat rises off my cheeks and the back of my neck. Will I ever be forgiven? By anybody? “Maybe. If Matt’s gone pro.”
“We both know he did the moment he turned eighteen.”
He’s probably right, so I say nothing.
“It’s too bad you taught him how to defeat Kaden.”
A knot forms in my windpipe and I pick at a hole in my jeans right above the knee, ripping it wider. “I know.” I’m well aware of the rotten choices I made. I clear my throat and try again. “I was thinking maybe you could help Kaden train.”
I was thinking Dad could get out of this house. I read once that exercising causes a rush of endorphins. Maybe if he did something he enjoyed, something he was good at, he’d get better.
“I’m sure your grandfather has that covered.” Dad manages a half smile when he looks at me. “What about you? Have you thought about going back?”
I have that heavy sinking sensation as I shake my head—the type that feels like cold maple syrup running from my heart to my intestines. Would it make him happy if I did return? I’ve dug my grave so deep at the gym it may be impossible to go back even if I wanted to.
The refrigerator kicks on, a loud hum signifying something is on the verge of breaking.
“Your mom talked to her great-aunt in California. She’s offered to let us live with her.”
I raise an eyebrow. “She lives in a retirement community. As in no one over sixty-five.”
“She’s gotten permission to let us stay.”
I assess the kitchen. This house is the dirty dark secret of hell on earth, but the thought of leaving Kentucky cuts my soul. Leaving the state means we’ve given up hope and it wasn’t until this very moment that I realize I’ve held on to a shred. No matter how battered and bruised the shred is, it’s still faintly alive, praying that Dad will land a job and take us home. “Are we leaving?”
“We’re going to try to hold on until you and Kaden graduate. We’ll go if things haven’t improved by then.”
“You’ll find something. I know you will.”
“How’s the college search going?” Dad rushes out.
I freeze, unsure how to respond. I’ve kept the rejection private, though I crave to tell Dad. Once upon a time, he would have been the first person I approached with any problem because he always had the right words. He’d place an arm around my shoulder, kiss my temple and tell me, “Bad luck, kid. We’ll get ’em next time.”
The hurt inside, knowing I’ve let him down with the gym and kickboxing and now college, it’s like being gutted open by a serrated blade. “The college search is going great.”
“Do you have any scholarship leads?”
No. “Yeah. Plenty.”
“Good.” A pause. “Good. At least Kaden has the gym.” His voice cracks as his skin fades into the color of ash. The expression is off when all my memories of him are of a courageous fighter. I’ve watched my dad battle in the ring against opponents who were stronger than him and win. How did he become this broken?
Dread causes my hands to jerk because I itch to stick them over my eyes. It’s awful to watch his undoing, knowing I’m partly responsible. If I had gotten the meds, he wouldn’t obsess over his mistakes and he could start sleeping at night.
“Kaden will continue on at the gym, but I thought I’d have something to offer you for college. I had some money tucked away, not a lot, but enough to help, but then we needed it for the mortgage...”
A strange noise leaves Dad’s throat as he slides his chair back. “Library.”
Though it’s not open for a few more hours. Dad squeezes between the wall and the table and as he’s on the verge of leaving the kitchen, I open my mouth. “Daddy...”
My father presses a hand against the doorframe, his knuckles shifting as he tightens his grip. I haven’t called him that in years. He peers at me from over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know, Hays. I know.”
West
The intensive care unit of the hospital has that slasher-movie quiet to it. That moment right before the psycho jumps out from behind a counter and hacks the people to bits. From the family waiting room, I can hear the occasional monitor beeping, the rustle of paper and the low murmur of conversation between the nurses. I loathe this place. It’s cold, sterile, smells of rubbing alcohol and is filled with death.
Rachel shouldn’t be here. This place is the opposite of her. Unable to sit anymore, I jerk out of my seat. The guy on the other side of the room tugs his head up to look at me. We stare at each other. His wife is dying. I overheard him tell someone a few minutes ago.
Dying.
As I said, Rachel doesn’t belong here.
I glance away and walk to the windows. My jaw hurts. The knuckles on both my hands are scratched to hell and throb like a bitch. I drove here hours ago. Abby visited Rachel and left. I texted Dad