Take Me On

There’s a shift and a hand slides down and touches my shoulder.

“I gave her up, Rachel.” My voice cracks and the desperation, the pain I’ve tried to bury, breaks through to the surface. “I gave her up and, right now, I don’t know why.”

Wetness fills my eyes and I slam my fist into the floor, pissed. Rachel moves to the edge of the bed. “Then you win her back.”

“Dad will give her what she wants.” I stop. Fuck me. Fuck him. Fuck all of this. “He’s not my dad.”

She’s silent for a second and the sigh that escapes her lips cuts deep. “Mom told us.”

There’s a flop next to me and my eyes widen when a groggy Ethan rests his head against the bed. “Can we get the mental breakdown over so I can get some sleep?”

“Why are you in here?”

“The same reason you are,” he says. “The same reason the three of us ever do anything and end up together. Though our problems seemed a lot less complicated when we were pouring bubble bath into the Jacuzzi. It doesn’t matter who your dad is, West, because the real Youngs, they’re in this room. It’s always been the three of us against everyone else. For some reason, it’s just taken us longer to get back together.”

I lower my head into my hands and I fight the wave of grief that sweeps over me. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“Well, if we get a vote, can you stop being Dad?”

“Ethan,” Rachel chastises.

Anger curls within me. “What did you say?”

“He’s here, Rach, and he’s asking for help. We either say this now or lose the opportunity.”

She settles back onto the pillows, a silent acceptance.

“You’re pissed because Dad painted you into a bad spot with Haley, right?” Ethan says.

I nod, but I’m madder at myself.

“Shouldn’t Haley be mad at you for taking away her choice? To me, that sounds a lot like how Dad treats us.”

“You say you don’t know who you are,” adds Rachel. “But the question should be—who do you want to be?”





Haley

My uncle waits for us on the stoop. With the front porch light off, he’s more of a shadow, but the evil pulsating from the house tells me it’s him. He leans against the metal pole supporting the overhang and watches as Kaden and Jax drag my half-conscious father toward the house.

“What time is it?” asks Kaden.

“Doesn’t matter,” answers Jax. “The bastard isn’t going to let any of us in.”

Yet we continue forward. “It’s his brother. He’ll take him in,” I say. Maybe not us, but hopefully he’ll take my father. “We’ll tell him Dad’s sick.”

“Is there a flu where you reek of beer?” Jax readjusts his hold on my father. The rain continues its onslaught and it makes holding on to anything close to impossible. “There’s a reason why my dad’s a psychotic control freak. Dad’s dad would get drunk, then beat the hell out of him. PTSD isn’t just for soldiers.”

Jax and Kaden stop on the street in front of the house and share a long, hopeless look. Kaden nods to the curb and both he and Jax lower Dad to it. “Keep an eye on him, Hays.”

Dad sways and I rush to his side for support. Chills run through my body as I sit in a stream of water rushing to the sewer grate. Dad mumbles something and I can’t hear it over the pounding of the rain against the rooftops and the roaring of the water in the sewer tunnels below.

Above us an aging streetlamp buzzes to life. The dull light flickers, creating an eerie strobe. I close my eyes as rain flows over me like a violent waterfall. How did I end up here? How did my life get out of control? “Why?”

Dad lifts his head and John’s words echo in my mind: He’s lost his fight. Anger swells within me and becomes a tidal wave pouring onto shore. “Why!”

Behind me, Jax and Kaden begin to plead. Dad rubs his hands over his face. “You weren’t supposed to find me.”

When I was twelve, my father fought his last match. His opponent was half his age, stronger and agile, but my father had skill. I remember watching the bout, my hands wringing together and I kept my eyes glued to my father as if my will was enough to push him to win.

It was a bloody fight. Twice he went down. Twice he got back up. At the end of five rounds, my father stood victorious. Now, he sits in a gutter.

“You don’t drink. This isn’t you,” I whisper.

Dad raises his head to the sky and he blinks as if he’s drifting into coherency. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

I think of home...my home...my bed. I should be there, lying in that upstairs corner room. When it rained, the wind chimes beneath my window on the porch would tinkle and I’d snuggle deeper into the blanket, grateful for protection.