Chapter 13

Through the windshield, I stare at the darkness ahead of me, my fingers still grasping the keys in the ignition. I'd killed the engine minutes ago, but now I don't know what to do.

A part of me is frozen in fear.

The other half wants to flee.

It's the same old story when it comes to my grandpa.

It was just before midnight when the call came through from the store, or the bar, or whatever the hell people call the place. My grandpa had been there since last night, which isn't unusual for him. He tends to pass out with his head on the bar top, sitting on a chair that I'm almost positive has an imprint of his ass embedded into it.

Mae, the owner of the fine establishment, usually closes up for the night and goes home to her house attached to the store. She lets him sleep it off there because it's easier than trying to get him to move. Most nights, it isn't a problem. Tonight, he woke up and stumbled into her kitchen to relieve himself.

That's when she called me, apologizing for the inconvenience.

My grandpa is in her house, urinating where she prepares her food, and she's the one who's sorry? Swear, sometimes I wonder if people would still be as nice to me as they are if I wasn't as good at ball as I am. I wonder how they'd treat me if I was just another generic asshole kid with no real future ahead of me.

I had to practically carry my grandpa out of Mae's house and into my van, where we're currently sitting, side by side, only inches apart, but it feels like there's light years between us. My shoulders rise with my heavy, yet silent, intake of breath. The last thing I need is to make a sound that he could construe as defiant. "Do you think you can walk?" I ask, my tone flat.

"I'm not a fucking invalid, kid," he grumbles.

I press my lips tight before opening my door, stepping out, and waiting for him to do the same. After a solid minute passes, the passenger door finally opens, followed by a groan, then a thud, an umph, and then moaning. With a heavy sigh, I take my time walking around the van. Grandpa's laid out flat on his stomach, his arms outstretched at his sides, and it reminds me of little kids pretending to be airplanes. Only this airplane crashed and burned over ten years ago. I squat down beside him, my hand gentle on his shoulder. "I'm going to turn you over, okay?"

He doesn't respond—not that I expected him to.

After rolling him onto his back, I effortlessly lift him into my arms, into the house, then into his room. Thankfully, his bedroom's on the first floor, so I don't need to take him up the stairs. Not that I physically couldn't, but some nights, he's far less accepting of my help than he is right now.

Once I have him in his bed, I pull the covers up to his chin, and just watch him a moment. Satisfied he's done for the night, I start to leave. I've almost made it out of his room when he croaks, "Jace?"

I freeze, my shoulders tense, and turn to him. Jaw set, I ready myself for whatever he has to give me. "Yeah?"

"How's school, son?"

I swallow, let the knot of fear slide down my throat. "It's okay," I tell him. "Same as last year."

He laughs once, or, at least, I think that's what the sound is. "It's just time between ball, huh?"

My shoulders drop. Just a tad. "Yes, sir."

He motions with his eyes to the chair beside his bed, and with bated breath, I take the few steps to get to it and sit down.

He asks, "You captain?"

I nod, answering, "They haven't officially announced it yet, but Coach told me I was, so…"

For the first time in what feels like forever, my grandpa smiles, his bloodshot eyes beneath heavy lids softening when he looks at me. "I'm proud of you, Jace."

Lowering my gaze to my hands, I inspect my knuckles—red and raw from the beating I'd given the punching bag earlier. I take out my anger at the gym, because I don't have the balls to take it out on a frail old man—no matter how often he takes his out on me. "Thanks, Grandpa," I whisper, but he's already fast asleep, his loud snores proof of it.

I stay in his room for longer than I need to, making sure he doesn't throw up, then choke on his own vomit. Once I feel it's safe, I head up to my room. My computer screen is the only source of light, the image frozen from where I had to pause mid-play to answer Mae's call. I shut it off, wait for the darkness to settle around me before sliding my window open and stepping out.

I sit on the roof, facing Harlow's house, and I watch.

Wait.

Like I do most nights.

Her bedroom light is still on.

I know it's her room, because she's in there most of the time, but that light is always onat night. I don't know if she sleeps with it on or if she even sleeps there at all, but… it's got me curious. And I hate that it has, and I wish it didn't take up as much of my headspace as it does, but here I am—middle of the night, staring at her bedroom window hoping for just a tiny glimpse of her.

I'm fucked.

And the worst part is that I know I am.

Just like I know I got too close to her last night, because I regretted it the moment I was alone.

It all happened so fast—these feelings she stirred up inside of me. I think that's going to be the biggest downfall with Harlow… these new emotions she's creating. The problem is, I don't know how to process them. Or what to even do with them.

Last night, while sleep evaded me, I realized that maybe that's the problem with my grandpa too. Maybe he doesn't know how to deal with his emotions, and that's why he takes it out on me. It makes sense when you really, truly think about it.

It's probably why he chooses alcohol over everything else.

I guess I'm the same in that sense.

But while his addiction is booze, mine has to be basketball.

It's the only way I can climb out of this hellhole.

And Harlow… she can't be anything more than a bump in the road.