Page 5 of Finding Delaware

The little orange ball of fur knocks over everything in sight, junk clattering to the ground before she runs from the room, shoving my door on her way out so that it swings and hits the wall behind it.

With a flinch, I hold my breath and wait. Maybe he didn’t hear it. Maybe he’s so plastered that nothing short of a bomb going off would wake him. Maybe pigs will fly because five seconds later, I hear his shout from the living room as the springs in the couch squeak.

“What are you doing, boy?”

Goddammit.

Rising from my crouch, body shaking, I yank a duffel out of my closet and start pulling every shirt I own off the hooks, stuffing them into the bag.

“Packing.” My voice is slightly weak against the throbbing that’s radiating through my ribs. It’s too hot in here, too muggy, so I unzip my motocross jacket and leave it dangling at my waist as I cross to my dresser, where I snicker at the punching bag in the corner that has Huckslee’s picture taped on it. So what if I like to imagine it’s his face that I’m punching the days between school and motocross? Does that seem obsessive? Maybe. Don’t give two fucks, though.

I stuff every pair of boxers and socks I have into the bag, along with several baggies of weed I’ve yet to sell, when the pungent odor of whiskey stings my nostrils. My nose automatically wrinkles as I take in my father leaning against the doorway, a bottle of Jack in one hand while his otherscratches at the gut hanging over his dirty sweatpants. A dangerous, glassy gleam glints in his eyes.

Fucking great. Drunkandhigh. Always a winning combination.

“Who fucked up your face?” he grunts, swigging from his bottle, and I turn back around to continue gathering my shit.

“Fight at the track.”

He grunts again. “Who was it?”

I pause, weighing my words before shrugging with a wince. “Huckslee Davis.”

“Did you kick his ass?”

There’s a lethal undertone to his words that has me seeing red, and I brush past him down the small hall toward the bathroom. “What the fuck do you think?”

While I may get violent with Huckslee because I’m forced to, the thought of anyone else touching him pisses me off. He’s mine to torment. No one else’s.

Before I can enter the bathroom, a hand wraps around my arm with so much force I swear I feel something crack, and I’m whipped around to face my father. He steps into my space, close enough for me to gag at his whiskey breath. “Watch how you talk to me, boy.”

Tears prick my eyes from the way his fingers tighten around my bicep, and I blink them away rapidly. This isn’t the first time he’s grabbed me like this or even laid hands on me, but I know that whatever I say right now will either escalate or defuse the situation.

“Okay, sorry. Jesus.”

His grip tightens so hard that my knees nearly buckle, but finally, he lets me go with a hard shove into the bathroom door,a whimper bubbling out of my throat when the knob hits my sore rib.

I hate him. I fucking hate him.

With my back to him, I mask a sniffle, grabbing my toothbrush and toothpaste from the mirror before stuffing them into my bag, along with deodorant and the electric razor I shave my balls with.

“What time is the wedding?” Another swig off that bottle has my jaw ticking, and I move on to get my things from the shower, ignoring the soap scum that lines the tub.

“Noon tomorrow.”

He scoffs loudly and turns away, finally leaving me alone in peace. Once he’s gone, I study myself in the mirror for a minute.

God, I look like shit. My black hair is sticking up with grease and sweat; one eye is bloodshot, and the other is beginning to blacken. Blood crusts my upper lip from where Huck bashed my nose, which is definitely starting to bruise.

Dropping my gaze to my arm, I scowl at the ring of bruises already forming from my father’s fingerprints. At least with the other marks covering my body, I won’t have to hide myself in the locker room after football practice. I can blame my appearance on fighting with Huckslee, just like I always do.

After I’ve gathered everything I need from the bathroom, I tip-toe back to my room, glancing at the state of the living room and kitchen. Empty beer bottles line the stained carpet, and a mountain of dishes are in the sink. The whole place reeks, but I stay away as much as possible. My father is a fucking slob.

In all honesty, I can see why my mother would get sick of this life and want to leave it. What I’ve never understood, though, is why she couldn’t take her seven-year-old son with her.

Entering my room, which I always keep clean and organized, I freeze when I find my dad staring at my punching bag in the corner, at the picture of Huck taped to it. Dread prickles my skin, and I swallow hard when he turns around with a sneer.

“Is that why you’re in such a rush to leave?”

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