Page 308 of Hateful Games

“At least tell me he’s okay, Nathan,” I brokenly ask, holding back the tremble.

He stares ahead at the road, one hand on the steering wheel. “He’s used to it.”

His evasive answer is unhelpful.

I let silence resume. After a few minutes, I sit up straight and make out the street taking us to Nova’s parents’ house. The gated community with one stunning house after another. Yet I can’t admire their beauty as we near my in-laws’ place.

Is it his mom? Dad?

Did they have a fight?

What did Nathan mean Nova’s used to it? I never suspected Nova came from a broken home. Every time I’ve met Danish and Teresa, they’ve seemed like a sweet couple. Always respectful to each other. They’re like a happy family, unlike mine.

We park in the circular driveway.

Nathan’s low voice stops me before I can step out. “He’ll be pissed, Rosalie. Don’t take anything personally.”

I get out from the car. Nathan doesn’t leave until I walk into the foyer, shutting the front door behind me. The house looks the same as the last time I was here, the furniture in their usual spots while dim lighting guides my path. The ground floor is devoid of life.

However, the kitchen is a mess.

Like it hasn’t been cleaned in days. It reeks as unwashed dishes overflow in the sink, broken shards of glass litter the tiled floor while empty alcohol bottles decorate the kitchen island.

I almost believe I’ve entered the wrong house. Except, a childhood photo of Nova with his mom is on the refrigerator.

What the hell has happened here?

Switching directions, I travel toward the staircase leading to the second floor. My heart in my throat, mind riddled with anxiety and confusion as I climb the steps. My heels clap on the floor as I skip Nova’s bedroom and instead go toward his parents’.

A gut instinct guiding me.

The silence is too overbearing and sickening. Until I hear a low and pained moaning sound, followed by light streaming into the hallway from his parents’ master bedroom. When it repeats, I hastily cross the distance, worried that anyone is hurt.

Pushing open the ajar door, I screech to a halt. The bedroom is messier than the kitchen. Clothes strewn all over the floor and unmade bed, empty and half-empty alcohol bottles littering the floor. The whole room reeking of alcohol and piss. Telltale signs of someone going on a binge-drinking spree.

I catch Nova’s suit jacket draped over the rocking chair in the corner.

Is Danish an alcoholic? Did he hurt Teresa? My eyes snap to the adjoined bathroom, wide open. I cautiously reach it.

Nothing prepares me for the sight inside.

Nova is hunched over a kneeling Teresa, barely conscious, puking into the toilet. She is unrecognizable in a stained white maxi dress with thin straps, one falling down her shoulder. Her greasy hair is held back by Nova’s grip.

A tortured sound falls from my lips.

Nova’s head swivels in my direction.

When his dark eyes clash with mine, I stagger back a step watching them become livid. Before he can probably berate me, Teresa coughs and pushes against his hold, leaning up. He carefully helps her upright and stretches to flush the toilet.

The stench of vomit heavy.

My mother-in-law is too drunk to notice my presence and rests her head on her son’s lap while he cleans her mouth with a wet washcloth. His movements of a person who’s done this a million times. The shadows on his face carrying years of burden.

The truth hits like a wrecking ball.

Nova’s been living in a glass house too, full of secrets and damage. I let myself be fooled that his family is perfect. Heck, I secretly envied it. There’s still so much I don’t know.

I watch numbly as he hooks one arm under his mother’s knees and another below her head to pick her up. He doesn’t meet my eyes, shoulders bunched tight as he walks closer. Teresa’s clothes look like they haven’t been changed in days.

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