Page 41 of Finding Delaware

Me: What the fuck did you say to my dad?

He never reads it.

And the hatred I’m feeling at everything he’s done festers. So I text him again.

Me: You know, my dad’s done a lot for you that he didn’t have to. You treat him and everyone around you like shit. Maybe you should just stay gone.

He never reads that message, either.

Looking back, I probably should have taken his silence as a warning. Taylor never ignores my texts. But I’m so done with him, and all of his bullshit that I take one of my meds to calm the thoughts that are opening a black pit inside my head, ignoring the feeling in my gut that’s screamingsomething is very, very wrong.

Hours later, after falling into a restless sleep, Dad throws open my bedroom door, startling me awake. He flicks on the top light and rushes in, a phone pressed to his ear with panic in his voice. “Huckslee, did you give Taylor your car keys?”

“What?”

Quickly jumping from my bed, I pull down the blinds to look down into the driveway. Sure enough, my Honda is missing.

“Huck.” Dad’s hand lands on my shoulder, and when I take in the alarm in his eyes, it feels like the ground just opened up and tossed me into free fall. “Son, there’s been an accident.”

Taylor

March

“Ineed you to give me something here, Taylor. Anything.”

Unlikely.

With my head resting against the plush back of a sofa chair, I keep my eyes trained out the window. It’s only light flurries today, soft flakes drifting down lazily to mix with the slush already covering the ground. It’s still snowing in March, can you fucking believe that shit? Winter in Utah is temperamental. Some years, the snow starts in January. For others, it doesn’t stop until May.

For the sake of the race next month, I sincerely hope this shit stops by then.

“Taylor, are you listening to me?”

Trying not to.

I hear a heavy sigh and roll my head to peek at the woman sitting behind a stylish black desk. She’s rubbing her temples, pink lips pursed. Clearly annoyed with me.

“Do you know why you’re here?” She asks, pulling the wool cardigan tighter around her to ward off the chill in the room.

“Because I’m forced to be,” I mutter, feeling around my jacket for a pack of smokes out of habit. There’s none there, which irritates me further. Ran out two days ago and haven’t had money for more.

“Court ordered, yes,” she agrees, nodding her head of peppered brown hair. “And in order to eventually pass these sessions, Taylor, you actually have to talk with me.”

Which is fucking bullshit. All of it. How a judge can force someone into shit like this should be illegal. I tell her as much.

“No, whatyoudid was illegal,” she says firmly, “which led us here. Now, we can talk about what happened, or I can tell the judge you refused, and you can spend some time in a cell.”

My brows raise slightly as I give her a look. Fuck kind of therapist is she? Aren’t they supposed to be all light and rainbows and shit?

“Let’s start with the holidays.” Doctor Hart picks up a pen and flips open her notebook. “How was your Christmas?”

“Fantastic,” I snap sarcastically, facing the window again. “How was yours?”

It really wasn’t, but that’s not unlike any other year, so what else is new?

“Mine was great, thank you for asking. But we aren’t talking about me. Did you get any gifts?”

Fuck, I really need a cigarette.

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