Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Milo

I got home late after spending most of the day messed up. I felt sick to my stomach. That wasn’t shocking. What goes up must come down. The crash was always the hardest. Tom was good enough to find me as I wandered the hallways messed up. He got me into his car, drove me to his house, and hid me in his bathroom until I was sober enough to make it home. As he dropped me off, I muttered a thank you.

“Milo, you know we’re friends, right?” Tom said before I was able to climb out of the car.

“Yeah, sure.”

“No. I mean it. I know I’m new to this town, and I know we’re different in almost every way possible, but I do consider you a good friend of mine. So if you ever need someone to talk to or to just be quiet with, I got you. I might not be as quiet as Chris, but I can learn to shut up.”

I looked over at him and nodded. “Thanks, T.”

“T?” he gasped, slamming his hands to his chest. “Did you just nickname me? Are we on a nickname basis?”

“Don’t make this a thing,” I grumbled, opening the passenger door.

“It’s totally a thing.”

I climbed out of his car, and he rolled down the window and yelled, “See you later, Mi-Mi!”

Mi-Mi.

I hated that more than he’d ever know, but I was almost certain he’d call me it for the remainder of my life.

Dad’s car was in the driveway, which was a good sign. I figured he’d be passed out at some bar or locked up for indecent exposure for pissing on the side of a building or something. Instead, I walked into the house to hear him in his bedroom. The door was shut, but I could hear him clear as day.

He was sobbing.

Choking on his inhales. Slicing through his exhales.

I didn’t know his heartbreak could worsen my own.

We weren’t close anymore, but something was damn painful about hearing your father cry. He spent most of my life being a strong, tough man who never showed any weakness. Now, to hear him falling apart felt so bizarre.

Without thought, I tried to turn his doorknob to check on him, but it was locked.

I lowered myself to the floor outside his room, placed my back against the wall, and bent my knees. My arms rested crossed against my kneecaps as Dad wailed in his pain.

I fell apart with him, sitting against that wall with my face buried into the palms of my hands.

Our pain was different from one another. He lost a wife; I lost a mother.

Still, we both shattered into a million pieces.

That was the thing about grief—it didn’t discriminate. It simply made everyone drown.