Page 15 of His Heart

With trembling hands, I quickly grabbed a lighter off the counter and handed it to her. She lit her cigarette and took a long drag, then took it out of her mouth between two fingers. She held in the smoke before blowing it out in a cloud.

“Go pack your shit,” she said. “Just what we can fit in the car. We’ll have to come back for the rest. Or just get new shit, I don’t know.”

My lungs felt tight, like I couldn’t get enough air. Without another word, I turned and went upstairs to my room.

I didn’t start packing like she’d told me to. I stood in the center of my bedroom, looking around. I was going to graduate in five months. The last five months of my sentence. Possibly four. In four months, I’d turn eighteen. Even though I’d still have a month until graduation, I’d be a legal adult. Maybe I’d find a way to move out.

I just needed four more months.

But this move shouldn’t have surprised me. Mom had been with Paul for a record eighteen months, and we’d lived here for well over a year. We’d been downright settled in this place. It had been stupid to hope we’d live here long enough for me to graduate. I should have known better than to make friends. Get close to Liam.

I glanced out my window at Liam’s house. His bedroom was dark, but it was six o’clock. Dinner time. He was probably sitting at the dining table with his family, sharing a meal. Something that required pots and pans like the ones my mom was pointlessly packing downstairs.

Tucson was three hours away. Would Liam’s parents let him come visit me? Would he ever have time? He’d have school, and practice, and games.

More importantly, would my mom let me see him if he came?

I’d kept my relationship with Liam quiet, hiding behind my friendship with his sister. It was easier to tell my mom I was going next door to hang out with Olivia than be honest and say Liam was my boyfriend. I was terrified of lying to her, but I was more afraid of what she’d do if she knew the truth. It wasn’t that we were sleeping together, like she feared so much. But she’d never believe me if I told her we weren’t having sex. To her, that’s what a relationship was.

And I was friends with Olivia. I didn’t hang out with her as much as I did Liam, but I liked her a lot. She was only about six months younger than me, and a junior. She was the first friend I’d had since I was little.

I’d been spending a lot of time with the Harpers. Liam’s parents were amazing, Olivia was sweet, and Liam… He was everything. Some people would say I was too young to be in love, but I knew better. I was completely in love with Liam Harper.

How could I leave them?

Anger bubbled up inside me. Why did she have to do this to me? Over and over again? I tried to be a good daughter. I cleaned up after her. Followed her rules, whether they made sense or not. Ignored her drugs. I never ratted her out or called the cops, not even when she hit me.

I’d spent my entire life trying to make her happy. Trying to be good so she’d stay sober for a little while. Because sometimes she did. Sometimes she seemed to get herself together, and things would be okay.

Then I’d come home to her passed out on the couch, or packing up the house to move in with yet another dirtbag she’d picked up who knows where.

And now she was going to move me yet again, right in the middle of my senior year. When I only had four months left before I’d be free.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pack up and start over again. Not this time.

Instead of pulling out my things and packing for Tucson, I grabbed some of the least-shitty clothes I owned and stuffed them into my backpack. My journals. Hairbrush. Makeup bag. The picture of me and Liam at the dance.

There wasn’t anything else I wanted.

With my phone in the back pocket of my ripped jeans, and my backpack slung over my shoulders, I crept downstairs. I desperately hoped I could get out of the house without her hearing. She’d seemed pretty sober, so I didn’t have the advantage of her being stoned. If I was really doing this, I had to do it fast.

There was so much crap strewn around the living room, I had to pick up my feet and tip-toe around. Mom was still in the kitchen. I could hear her muttering and the ripping sound of packing tape. What was she doing back there? She only had a sedan—how much kitchen stuff that never got used did she plan on stuffing into the back seat of her car?

“Brooke!”

I froze, my heart pounding. Did she think I was still upstairs? Should I answer? I was too far away from the door. Could I outrun her if she chased me? I’d never tried. I’d always been too scared of what she’d do when she caught me to run away from her.

But I wasn’t coming back this time. Not ever. So fuck it.

I sprinted for the front door. Threw it open.

“Brooke, where the hell do you think you’re going?”

My backpack bounced as I bolted down the three steps leading to the driveway. One of my journals dug painfully into my back, but she’d do worse if she caught me. I almost made it to the street—although I had no idea where I was going—when I tripped and flew forward, landing hard on the black asphalt.

Pain bloomed across my palms, scraped raw, and my knees burned. I’d tripped over something, but I wasn’t sure what. It didn’t matter. I just had to get up.

“Brooke, what the fuck is going on?” Mom asked. Her footsteps were getting closer, but she wasn’t running.

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