34. Mira

34

MIRA

It's been well over a decade since I've been in my childhood home. It looks exactly the same.

Tin foil covers the living room windows because Dad doesn't like reflections on the television. The smell of cigarette smoke is so heavy that I can taste it, but I can't cover my nose. I can't move except to walk deeper into the house.

Around the sunken-in couch.

Past the foldable TV tray covered in cigarette butts.

Into the carpeted kitchen.

I move robotically to the sink, turning on the tap and letting the air crackle through the line until it runs smoothly. Years' worth of dishes are piled in a teetering stack next to the overflowing sink.

I haven't been back here in so long. I don't know what I'm doing here now, but I have to work. I have to do these dishes before someone comes home and they start to ? —

The front door bangs off the wall, and I jump.

Faster. I have to wash faster.

But oily dishes slip out of my hands. I fumble for the soap, but it sprays out like a firehose, dousing the walls and the countertop in neon blue suds.

"Here, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty." My father's voice slithers through the house like a snake, shivering down my spine. He's drunk. He only calls me ‘Kitty' when he's drunk.

I work harder and faster while his voice gets louder behind me. "This is my house, Kitty! You do the dishes in my house! You scrub the floors in my house!"

My arms ache, but I can't work fast enough. I can't wash a single dish.

"How did you manage to fuck this up, Kitty?"

Tears pour down my face and I can't breathe. I'm choking on my own sobs and the stench of mildew and terror.

"This was your last chance," he roars. "I told you if you fucked up again, I'd kill you!"

The house shakes, and I turn around, and he's coming, he's coming, he's…

I lurch out of bed and crack my knees hard on the floor. There's no time to get back upright, so I scramble on all fours into the bathroom, just in time to empty my stomach in the toilet.

It's becoming routine, at this point. Days of nightmares and throwing up. I thought I was hundreds of miles away from this trauma, but it found me.

It fucking found me.

I have no idea what time it is, but I turn the shower on and shiver under the spray. I breathe in the clean steam and let the hot water burn over my skin.

"I'm safe. I'm far away," I whisper to myself. "I'm free."

But then I close my eyes and I see my childhood home like no time at all has passed. I can hear my father's voice—a violent rasp made raspier by a lifetime of smoking and screaming—like I never left.

Zane didn't know.

I have no clue what Hanna told him because I was too terrified to ask, but he didn't know what would happen when he backed me against the door. If he'd known the horrible place my brain went when he screamed, he never would have done it.

Because Zane isn't my father.

Knowing that doesn't do a damn thing to fix the fucked-up tangle of neural pathways in my head. It's simple math: screaming leads to anger. Anger leads to hitting. Hitting leads to blood. Those are facts of life as far as my body is concerned, and now, I can't even look at Zane without tears collecting in my eyes.

My instincts are waiting for the other shoe to drop, and I don't know how much longer I can live like this.

I also don't know how much longer I can keep running.

I thought, if I put enough miles between me and that fucked-up house—those fucked-up people—that my fear would disappear. But it doesn't matter how far I run. I'm the problem. The call is coming from inside the house.

My knees wobble and I slide down the glass shower wall before my legs can give out.

Water swirls around the drain, and I drop my forehead to my knees.

I can't live like this again.

I won't.

"Zane's building may have a fancy gym, but it doesn't have the world's best workout partner." Taylor poses in the long wall of mirrors, sticking her tongue out while she takes turns flexing her ass cheeks. Suddenly, she stops and meets my eyes in the reflection. "Right?"

I smile for what feels like the first time in days. "That title remains yours."

She pumps her fist in victory. "Honestly, I already knew that. Whatever your training regimen is right now, you need to add some weights back in. You're looking scrawny."

That's what sleepless nights and too many skipped meals will do for you.

"I haven't been working out much at all, actually," I mumble.

Taylor stops and turns to me. "Uh-oh."

"No. No ‘uh-oh.' I'm fine." It takes what little energy I have left to force that lie out. "I've just been busy."

"If you were fine, you'd be working out regularly," Taylor retorts. "You once told me that a gym membership was cheaper than therapy. And that you desperately needed therapy."

I grimace and groan. "That's what I get for being drunk and vulnerable."

Taylor slides in front of me, close enough that my face will drag down her midsection if I try to do another squat. "Is everything okay with you? You're usually happy after a kickboxing class."

She's not wrong. I walked out of the class tonight feeling happier than I have in days, which unfortunately only meant I wasn't on the verge of a panic attack or tears. Taylor sensed my distress.

So I say the only thing I know will get her off of my back: "I think I just need a night out."

"Oh my God, why didn't you say so earlier?!" She twists around, scanning the gym. "Do you see Blaine anywhere?"

Blaine is one of the trainers at the gym. His clientele is almost exclusively women who want to fuck him and he has high turnover, for unspoken but somewhat obvious reasons.

"I think he finished with his last client a few minutes ago. But I meant I need a night out on the town, not another training session."

Taylor waves me away. "I know that. Thankfully, I bet Blaine's body looks as good in a button down as it does in gym-branded tank tops."

I stare at Taylor for a long time before my exhausted brain finally processes what she's saying. "You want to set me up on a date?"

"Duh! Nothing will clear the fog out of your head—and the cobwebs out of your coochie—like a date."

I slap away the finger she's pointing at my crotch. "I don't have cobwebs! And I don't want a date."

Taylor sighs and grabs my shoulders. "You think you don't want a date, but that's just because you haven't been on one in so long that you've forgotten how fun they can be. Daniel and I have been going out a lot recently and it's amazing."

"It's amazing because you like Daniel. I don't like Blaine."

"You don't know Blaine; there's a difference," she argues. "Plus, he has asked me about you a few times since we started coming here. He thinks you're cute."

I glance at myself sidelong in the mirror. There is nothing cute about the dark circles under my eyes or the sweat stains under my arms.

"Not so much right now, maybe" Taylor concedes with a wince. "But usually, you're smoking hot. So, you'll beautify yourself, I'll invite Blaine, and we'll all go out together."

"‘Together'? Like, a double date?"

"Obviously." She rolls her eyes. "I'm not going to set you up with some guy we barely know and send you off on your own. There's safety in numbers. And in having a burly hockey player who knows how to throw his weight around."

I already have a burly hockey player at home, I want to protest. Though, that's kind of the heart and soul of my problem.

"Daniel is Zane's best friend," I point out. "It's weird for him to tag along on a date with me. Plus, I'm not supposed to date. Per my contract."

Taylor arches a brow. "Did you actually sign a contract that said you couldn't date?"

"Well, I mean… No. But it was an oral agreement."

Taylor grins mischievously. "Dirty."

"You know what I mean! I told Zane I wouldn't date anyone else."

"Then I'll tell Zane that he doesn't get to lock you up in his condo unless he's going to fulfill all of your needs." She lowers her chin, looking at me under suggestively raised eyebrows in case there's any chance I don't understand what she means. "He doesn't want to actually date you, so he should let someone else step up to the plate."

The reminder stings worse than it should. That is enough reason for me to relent.

"Fine," I sigh. " But you have to make it clear to Blaine that this is just a hangout. It's a get-to-know-you drink or dinner or whatever you all decide to do. It's not an official date."

Taylor swipes my phone out of my arm band and starts tapping away.

"Hey! What are you doing?"

"I am sending Zane a calendar invite so he knows you are booked up after the game tomorrow night."

I frown as she navigates through my phone. "How do you even know my password?"

"I added my fingerprint to your phone ages ago." She plops my phone back in my hand, looking far too satisfied with herself. "You just worry about what you're going to wear to your get-to-know-you-before-we-fuck-the-night-away drinks with Blaine, and I'll take care of the rest."

I can only sigh. I've never regretted a decision so quickly in my entire life.