Blowing out a huff of air, I climb back in my window, put my earbuds in to block out the sounds of my mom screaming at Dad, and lay back on my bed to wait.
The earbuds only do so much. They don’t drown out the sound of shattering glass or the thud of something heavy against the wall, but they dull it enough I can almost trick myself into believing the thuds are part of the music.
If I was someone else, I might go downstairs to check everything is okay, but it happens so often, I filter it out. I don’t care anymore. It doesn’t take long to figure out your father doesn’t want you when everything that goes wrong is your fault. It doesn’t take long for the fight-or-flight response to kick in, and for flight to win out every single time.
Mom doesn’t care about me the same way my father doesn’t. She’s as explosive and toxic as my father, but turns to the bottle first before she gets violent. It’s not in me to care anymore.
When I was ten, I discovered my safe haven. The place I could escape to when things got bad at home. It was the same day Dad ran over Colt’s basketball with his truck.
My dad is a monster. When he is home, I run and hide. Out of sight out of mind. It’s both mine and my dad’s motto. If I keep out of his sight, I’m out of his mind.
Survival 101.
I just have to survive one more night.
Tomorrow is a new day. A new beginning. And I can’t fucking wait to get the hell out of this dump, away from both my parents and all the bad memories this place holds.
I pat the bed in search of my phone, hoping that Colt has got rid of his girlfriend by now.
Surely Eliza won’t stay all night.
I smile when I unlock the screen to find a single word text from him.
* * *
Colt: Open
* * *
Sitting up, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand. With one last look around my room and no goodbye to my parents, I pick up the small duffle bag stuffed with clothes and the few small possessions that mean something, sling it over my shoulder and climb out the window for the last time.
3
Colt
I glance around my room checking it’s clean enough for Emerson. Once I’m satisfied she won’t chew me out for being a pig, I pull open the blinds and lift the window.
I send her a quick text.
Then I rush across the hall to the bathroom for a quick shower to wash Eliza off me while I wait for Em. She isn’t in my room when I return, so I lie on the bed and wait. My fingers tap a rhythm on my legs, but I’m restless. It’s been too long since I played ball or saw Em last. Eliza took up more of my time today than I expected. I roll over and search under my bed.
Where the hell is my ball?
Where’s Emerson?
I need one of them. Now. Pulling on a shirt, I run downstairs to grab a drink.
“Hey, hey, hey, slow down,” Dad warns as I run past him.
“Sorry,” I apologize, still tapping out a beat with my invisible drumsticks.
“What’s wrong?”
“Have you seen my ball?”
“You want to play now?” He raises his eyebrows in surprise and scratches his salt and pepper beard. He’s only in his early forties. But he’s had a tough few years, and it’s taking its toll on him. “I thought you’d be hanging with Emerson.”
“She’s not answering my text and I need my ball.”
He sighs and rubs a hand over his tired face. Even though he will miss me when I leave, I’m sure he’s counting down the minutes until I go so he can have a break. Can’t blame him. I’m hard work. “It’s packed in the car already.”
“Shit.” I pull on the ends of my hair. I need that ball.
“Wanna talk to me?”
“No.” I prefer to play ball.
Where the hell is Em?
“Your um, friend...she seemed...” He trails off, biting his lip.
“Crazy?”
“Pissed, I was going to say.”
Pressing my feet together, I bounce on my toes and nod. “She wanted to stay but...” I shrug.
Dad nods. He understands I need Emerson and no other girl will get in the way of that. He figured out before I did that Emerson has the same effect on me that basketball does. It’s why he never complains about her sleeping over, never questions it. If it keeps me calm and happy, then he’s all for it.
Also, I’m sure he prefers she stays here with us where she’s safe and not next door at the mercy of her father and her alcoholic mother.
“Come watch a game with me,” Dad offers, switching off his movie and turning on a pre-recorded basketball game. I must have watched it a thousand times with him. I’ve memorized it play-by-play and so has he. It sure as fuck drives him crazy to sit through the same few games over and over, but he does it for me because it calms me.
“No, it’s okay.” I don’t want to bore him too much.
“Want me to get the ball from the car and we can play a game?” His brown eyes are weary, dark circles shadow his face, but he makes the effort for me. Everything he does is for me.
I shake my head and shove my hands in my pockets. I appreciate the gesture but I’m not sure it’ll be enough. It isn’t the restlessness and excess energy. It’s the anxiety of leaving. Leaving Dad. Starting college two years later than everyone else my age. It’s not my fault. I repeated a year when I was six, otherwise I could have started college last year, but I couldn’t have survived without Em. Like she couldn’t have survived without me.
We’ve become each other’s crutches. So, I deferred for a year and waited until she was ready, too. We rely on each other too much to be apart for long periods of time. It isn’t healthy but until anyone finds a better way to calm me and keep me grounded, Em is all I have.
I keep her safe, give her shelter, a loving home, and she gives me focus and a way to calm my impulsiveness.
Leaving Dad will be hard. Since mom died, he’s lost his light; the little piece of him which was always cheery and happy has dimmed. He puts on a brave face, but he misses her. He lost a part of himself the day she died, and now I’m leaving, too. But I’m doing it for him. For us. If this works out, if I work my ass off, keep my grades up and play ball to the best of my abilities, I have a real chance at making it pro. Then I’ll take care of Dad, of Emerson, and me. We’ll live long happy lives, together.
“I’m going for a run,” I tell Dad.
“Colton. Stop.” He comes over and places his hands on my shoulders. “You’re spiraling.”
I shove his hands off. I know I’m spiraling. I can’t stay still, can’t focus.
“Let’s get the ball from the car.”
I play basketball because I enjoy the focus it gives me. There is something about having a ball in my hands and an open court. It calms me, brings me peace and silences my mind.
At some point my focus shifted.
To the girl next door.
I’m not sure how or when it happened. All I’m positive of is she calms me and gives me as much focus as basketball. If I don’t have a ball with me, I need Em. For nine years she’s kept me grounded. I fidget less. I’m quieter, less disruptive. Emerson and basketball work better than any medication the doctors have given me over the years.