Chapter 1

"Every ending means a new beginning, Harlow."

Those were the last words my mother said right before she fell asleep in the passenger's seat. I wanted to tell her that, sometimes (and especially in our case), endings weren't really a choice, so… a new beginning wasn't anything to celebrate, let alone get excited about.

Mom stirs, groaning slightly, and within seconds, she's snoring again. To say that my mom is tired would be an understatement. Weeks of physical exhaustion have left her drained. Add that to the emotional turmoil she's been drowning in for months, and she's a barely functioning human, much less a mother or wife.

I bite back a yawn as I glance up at the rearview mirror, making sure my dad and his brother, my uncle Roy, are still behind us. Not that they could've gone off track. It's not as if our surroundings have spoiled us with choices for turnoffs, especially since my dad's in his eighteen-wheeler, a convenient vehicle to own for moving across the state of Texas.

I got stuck driving my mom's Honda since we had to sell my car to afford this little thing called life. I told Mom I could drive alone, but she wanted to be with me "just in case." A lot of good that did. To be fair to her, the only other option would be to sit in Dad's truck with him, but since they haven't been into the whole "spending time together" thing for a while now, that wasn't even a conversation.

I suppose she could've ridden with my uncle Roy, who's following in his RV. She could've slept a hell of a lot more comfortably in there than beside me, but I guess no one thought of it. My uncle's here to help with the move, and maybe also to make sure my parents don't kill each other, especially while I'm around to witness it.

"Your honor," I'd say, on the stand and under oath. "I heard nothing. I saw nothing."

Because I say nothing.

With a heavy sigh, I check the time on the dash—it's almost 3 p.m. We've been on the road for close to five hours now, and according to my phone's GPS, we're only ten minutes away from our "new beginning."

Our new home.

Aka, my latest version of hell.

Rowville, Texas is approximately five hours west of Dallas (my previous version of hell) and about an hour east of Odessa, where my uncle is from. According to my mom, it's so small in both size and population that the only way to get your mail is to go into the general store—which also doubles as the local drinking hole.

"Isn't that cute, Harlow?" she'd said.

"So cute," I'd agreed, because what was I supposed to say? That I can't wait to collect the endless amount of medical bills that seem to keep coming our way while a bunch of toothless, drunk old men stare at my ass? God, that would've sent her spiraling.

Had I been in the mental headspace to care about where I'd be spending my senior year of high school, then I probably would've done some research. As it stands, no matter where I am, I'd be at the bottom, surrounded by darkness, because while I fear my mom's imminent fall from grace… I've already experienced mine.

The worst part?

I don't have it in me to claw my way out.

I rub at my eyes, refusing to acknowledge the tears constantly present there, and glance over at my mother again, contemplating whether I should wake her. She had just enough time to change out of her scrubs before leaving this morning, and I'm sure what few hours she sleeps in the car is all she'll allow herself for the rest of the day.

Last night, she worked her last twelve-hour shift as an ER nurse at the children's hospital in Dallas, and tomorrow night, she starts her new job at Starlight Springs Hospital in Odessa. If you'd asked her a year ago how she felt about night shifts, she'd tell you she hated them. That most days, she questioned whether her love for the job was worth the toll it took on her mental health. Add working nights to the mix—the lack of sunlight and general mood-kill of being up all night and asleep all day, and yeah, there were times she'd swear to look for another job "just as soon as things settled down."

Spoiler alert: things never settled down.

In fact, they just got worse.

The only difference is that now, she'll tell you she'd rather work the night shift. Personally, I think it's because she prefers the company of darkness. Either that, or she can't stand to be around me.

Maybe it's both.

Her new job in Odessa came with a promotion and a raise, and that's the reason for the move. Or, at least, that's the reason my parents gave me. They came to me a few weeks ago, while I was in my room, on my bed, staring up at the ceiling (as seventeen-year-old girls mid-summer break do… not), and they told me the news. They stood in my doorway, almost touching sides, trying to convey a united front.

I told them I'd start packing that night, which I did, but the entire time there was this familiar uneasiness that settled in the pit of my stomach and never really left. The best way to describe it is when you're a kid and you question if Santa Claus is real. And it's so hard to get to the conclusion that he's not because that means that your parents have lied to you your entire life. And then it all clicks and it's just… painfully awkward… because now you know the truth. Your parents know the truth. Both you and your parents know each other knows the truth and yet… you circle around the topic until, eventually, it goes away.

That's how this move feels.

It feels like betrayal and lies and secrets all hidden within a giant broom used to sweep everything under the rug.

With a quiet sigh, I reach across, settle my hand on Mom's shoulder, and shake gently.

She wakes up gasping, as if she was trapped in a nightmare. Ironic—because that's exactly how I see this move, this new beginning.

It's a way to wake up from a nightmare.

"Sorry," I murmur, my voice scratchy from lack of use. "You asked me to wake you when we were close."

Mom sits taller, craning her neck to look around us. She won't see much. It's been the same view for the past hour—nothing but empty fields of dead, dry grass on either side of us.

"Damn, Harlow." She wipes the drool from her bottom lip and pushes her dark hair away from her eyes. "How long was I out for?"

Most of my features came from my mom. We have the same pointed nose, same boring brown eyes, same wavy caramel-colored hair. The major difference between us is (thankfully) our height. My mom barely registers at 4'11". My dad—an ex-D1 college basketball player who stands at 6'5"—says that it was Mom's height that first caught his eye. And then later, their height difference caught everyone else's.

I guess that proves they were an odd matchup to begin with.

"Harlow?" Mom says, and I glance over at her as she repeats, "how long was I out for?"

I stop myself from apologizing once again. "A few hours."

"I'm sorry. I wanted to keep you company and?—"

"It's okay," I cut in. "You need your sleep." Besides, we've kind of gotten the hang of the whole ignoring-each-other's-presence thing. I wouldn't want to ruin our streak.

We stay silent for the rest of the drive, the only sound in the car coming from the soft music playing through the speakers. We pass nothing until we get to a faded roadside sign welcoming us to Rowville, and I almost jump out of my skin when the GPS gives its first spoken direction in over an hour.

The closer we get to our destination, the more evidence of life I see. There are small houses set far back from the main road, some more signs, and then, in the middle of nowhere, the GPS tells us we've reached our destination.

"Should I pull over?" I ask, peering at the rearview to gauge Dad's reaction. The only thing I can make out is his cap and red beard. Behind him, my uncle sits behind the wheel of his RV—a carbon copy of his older brother, minus the beard.

"No, it's okay," Mom mumbles, pulling out a printout from her bag. She scans what looks like a hand-drawn map and written directions, before she adds, "Take the next left."

The next left is a gravel road about a mile long that ends at a Y intersection. I stop the car just before having to make a choice, and behind us, Dad's eighteen-wheeler groans to a halt, the familiar sound of its brakes echoing in my eardrums.

Mom's looking at the printout again, and all I can think is… if we go one way, what the hell's in the other? "Left again."

I turn left, and finally, a house, surrounded by nothing but straw-colored pastures, comes into view. The driveway is merely the road that we're on, and the house… the house is kind of beautiful. At least from the outside. Two stories, all white with faded black shutters bracketing the many, many windows, and—my favorite part—a porch that takes up the entire front of the house.

I almost smile.

Almost.

But that would be too easy.

Without a word, I open the door and step out, then immediately regret it. I'd been in the air-conditioned car for so long that, for a moment, I'd forgotten we were in Texas. During summer. And it was hotter than Satan's asshole out here. "Holy shit," I mumble, just as Dad hops out of his truck, now parked beside the house.

Hand up to block the raging sun, I watch him walk toward me with a smile so wide it makes me wonder how he learned to fake it so well. "What do you think, Low?"

He stops beside me, throws an arm over my shoulders as we face the house. I sweep my gaze at our surroundings and spot something I didn't notice before. About a quarter mile away is another house, similar to ours, and I guess that explains what's on the right of the intersection. But it's what's behind the house that grabs my attention—a tree line that extends as far as the eye can see. "I think I've found a new place to hide," I mumble, just loud enough for only him to hear.

Dad sighs, his awareness shifting to Mom getting out of the car. My uncle Roy gets out too, his focus moving from the house to us—a family so torn apart we can't even communicate anymore. "Looks good, Marcella," Uncle Roy states, but Mom is already halfway to the front door…

…and all the way checked out of reality.

Then, with one foot on the porch steps, she halts, whipping her head from side to side, trying to find the source of a sound that has us all frozen. "What is that?" she asks, even though we all know.

We used to hear it every single night, for hours and hours on end. I'd wake up to it most mornings. Fall asleep the same way. For my family, there's no mistaking the sound of leather bouncing on concrete, over and over, again and again.

"What the fuck is that?" Mom mutters, and then she's off, rushing toward the sound.

"Fuck," Dad spits, dropping his arm from around me and going after her.

I follow them, my breaking heart somehow racing, thumping hard against my rib cage. "Mom!" I call out, but there's no way she'll allow herself to hear me.

She marches around the house, to the back…

The moment I turn the corner and see what my mother sees, everything solid inside me shatters into pieces.

"Mom!" I shout.

Dad curses and yells, "Marcella!"

But neither of us moves. We simply watch, frozen in horror, as she approaches a shirtless boy around my age—his athletic body moving swiftly on a concrete half-court. I spot the white of his earbuds in his ears, and I can only imagine how loud he must have them blasting, because it's clear he's oblivious to what's happening, to my mom yelling at him to stop. To go away. To get the fuck off our property.

It's not until she charges at him, all 4'11" of her, that Dad and I finally come to and go after her. She's slamming her fists into this poor guy's chest now, one after the other, and she's yelling, and I don't know what she's saying, but she's screaming. Crying. Wailing.

And this boy… this poor, innocent boy just stands there, his dark hair falling over his brow, droplets of sweat at the ends, hanging on for dear life. Eyebrows drawn, he takes tiny little fists to his bare chest, over and over, while some insane woman curses at him for merely existing.

It feels like a movie. Like slow motion. Like I'm standing in a fictional world with fictional characters and the sound's distorted and nothing makes sense.

Dad wraps his arm around Mom's waist, lifting her gently, while I try to pull on her arm.

"Mom." It's a whisper.

A prayer.

And the boy's eyes lift from my mother's to mine, as if he could somehow hear my pleas. Our eyes lock. One second. Two. Three. Four. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Mom yells, and the boy breaks our stare to look down at her. Slowly, effortlessly, he grasps her wrists and lowers them just as Dad pulls her away.

"Sorry," the guy tells her, his voice deep, calm, and surely, he has no idea what he's apologizing for. He just knows that he should. Because that's how everyone acts around my mother.

Dad has Mom turned around now, and he whispers words in her ear… words I can't make out. After a few seconds, he sets her back on her feet, and I peer over at the boy just in time to watch him pull a single earbud from his ear.

"Sorry," he repeats.

"This is my house," Mom cries, turning to him. My shoulders deflate. "You are not to step foot anywhere near here again!" She marches a few steps away, toward the basketball, and kicks that fucker away.

My eyes drift shut, but only for a second before I force them open again. I try to make eye contact with the stranger in front of me so I can convey with my eyes what my mind won't comprehend. "I'm sorry," I want to tell him. "She's grieving."

"Sorry, ma'am," he says for the third time. "It won't happen again." Then, abruptly, his eyes meet mine, and my breath halts at the sudden familiarity. The sudden realization. I know that stare. I live that stare. There's nothing in his eyes but emptiness.

He doesn't argue, doesn't talk back, doesn't call out her crazy. He simply walks away, not even bothering to collect his basketball, and I watch, transfixed, wondering what the hell happened in his life to make him act as disconnected as I feel.

"He's just a kid, Marcie," Dad says, and I tear my attention away from the boy's back to my dad, now sitting on the concrete with my mom in his arms. "He don't mean nothin' by it."

Mom cries harder, gripping my dad's biceps, and I think back to the times my dad used to hold her exactly like this, back when they loved each other. Back when they showed that love in the form of affection.

"Come on, Harlow," Uncle Roy says, putting his arm around me and turning me away from my parents. "Why don't we check out the house?"

I glance over at the general direction the boy walked, only to find the space as void as my heart. Then I look back at my parents, now sitting separately on the concrete, their gazes lowered, their minds as lost as my spirit.

And then, for the first time in five months, I allow a single tear to fall from my lashes.

So much for new beginnings.