Page 50 of Until Forever Falls

“Crap,” the word slips out as I pull away and reach for my phone.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s my mom.” A sigh escapes as I stare at the screen. “I forgot to text her that I wasn’t coming straight home after work.” It’s not because she cares whether I’m around—she just thrives on having the upper hand. “I have to go.”

Brooks’ fingers curl around mine as he steers me toward the stairs. “Alright, then I’ll get you home.”

The truck feels like a barrier as we drive, safe, but the moment I step out, reality crashes in. I press my palms against my jeans, restless with bottled up anxiety.

“I can come,” Brooks offers, like it’s not even a question, just a fact.

“No, it’s okay.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” The reassurance feels thin, but I don’t want him involved in this. The chance of mom not caring is a fantasy. If I walk in with him, she’ll play nice until he’s gone—but the second the door closes behind him, I’ll pay for it twice over.

“Alright. But text me if you need anything—anything, Dylan. I can come back if you need me to.”

“I will.” I press a gentle kiss to his cheek before pulling away, the space between us stretching taut with every step I take toward home.

The short walk inside feels like a march toward the inevitable. Pushing open the door, the low hum of the television cuts through the tension, and there she is—on the couch, her hair a tangled mess, frustration practically radiating off her.

“Look who finally showed up. Where have you been?”

“My shift ran late,” the words come out steady, a practiced calm I’ve had years to master wrapping around them.

“You couldn’t bother to text me? Do you have any idea how worried I was?”

“Sorry. It slipped my mind.”

“Bullshit,” she spits, standing now. “You’re always forgetting something. Always screwing up.”

Her words strike like a whip, but I bite back my response. Anything else would be fuel for the fire. Turning away, it’s like wading through deep water, every step slower as her voice hooks into me, pulling me back.

“I was gathering laundry today. Had to wade through that wreck you call a room. It’s just as messed up as you are—but want to take a wild guess at what I dug up?”

“You…went through my room?”

“Sure did. And lucky for me—otherwise, I’d have never stumbled across this little sketchbook.” She dangles it like it’s diseased. “The page it was open to? Downright deranged. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you? Why would you draw yourself like that?”

“It wasn’t yours to touch.” The words barely make it past the tightness choking my throat.

“Well, isn’t that just convenient.” Her sneer could make even the strongest man cower. “Poor Dylan. Always pretending to be the victim, like your life is so hard. You don’t fool me.”

“That’s not—”

“Shut up,” she snaps, voice cracking as it turns into a screech. “Just shut up. You’re more trouble than you’re worth most days. And I’m done with you playing this act, like anyone should feel sorry for you.”

“Mom, pl—”

“I can’t do this right now. Just get out of my face.”

The walls close in, pressing against me like a living thing, watching, waiting, as I drag myself toward my room. The door clicks shut, sealing me in, and I sink to the floor, the wood biting into me as I fold in on myself. My breath stutters, scraping against my lungs like it doesn’t belong inside me.

Her accusation wraps around me, squeezing, strangling. She never stops to think—never wonders what I bury so deep it seeps out in lines. She only sees what she wants to. And now, she’s turned it into something shameful.

I curl tighter, willing myself to be small, invisible. But disappearing isn’t an option. Not anymore.

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