Dante sat back in his seat. “I know Amelia wants to see you. I was just texting her. She also said that she’s not ready to go back either. Needs to process this a little more. So, I told her I could take her to my family’s cabin by the lake. It’s small and quaint.”
He noticed my silence and spoke again.
“You want to come, too?” Dante asked, not looking up from the phone but somehow nailing my uncertainty to the wall with the question.
I considered it with equal parts curiosity and dread. “Wouldn’t that be weird?”
Dante smirked, finally glancing up from the screen. “Man, you set your house on fire. I think we’re past weird.”
I sipped my coffee, scalding my tongue. My hands shook, but less than last night. “Yeah. Okay. Maybe I’ll tag along. Amelia might not want me there, though.”
Dante flicked his cigarette into a chipped mug at his feet. “She actually told me you should come. ‘If he’s sober,’” he added, voice teasing. “So, try not to fuck it up.” The flash of his smile made it impossible to stay defensive.
I laughed, ran a hand through my hair. “No promises.” But I meant it, this time I would try.
We sat a while longer, the silence companionable in a way I’d never really had before. I didn’t need to fill it, didn’t need to ruin it with a joke or a confession. The morning was cold and clear, and for the first time in recent memory, I just let myself be in it.
Eventually, Dante got up and stretched. “Got to run by my mom’s place to drop off some stuff. Then we’ll swing by and get your car.”
The rest of the morning consisted of pacing, chugging water, contemplating, then repeating.
I was a messy, tangled web of emotions, and I wasn’t sure how I would sort it out.
I hadn’t gotten so fucked up in a while, but that streak fell apart last night when I decided to bury myself in the bottle.
Though the memory of being at my childhood home was blurred, I could faintly recall the grotesque feeling that had clung to me sitting in that house.
I don’t think it would ever go away.
Eventually, Dante dropped me at the edge of the bar’s lot, my car alone except for a pair of scattered empties.
“Text me when you get there, okay?” Dante said, like I was a kid on a field trip.
“Yeah,” I replied, but my hand was already on the door handle. I didn’t trust myself to say anything else that wouldn’t sound like a plea.
He waited until I’d unlocked the car and slid in, the seat still holding the shape of my last desperation. Then he pulled away, tires crunching over gravel, taillights fading out like the end of a good dream.
The drive to the motel was short, but I tried to drag it out by circling the block.
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I gripped the wheel and watched them tremor, thought about my dad’s hands doing the same, white-knuckled and trembling, only ever steady when holding court with a bottle.
I pulled into the lot and sat there for a second, dreading and anticipating seeing Amelia.
I took my time while walking to the motel door, and once I made it, there were a few seconds when I wanted to flee.
Instead, I used my key card and stepped inside the room. Amelia was sitting on the bed, flipping through a photo album. When she heard my entry, the album fell to the floor as she jumped up in surprise.
Her whole face fluttered through a series of emotions. Relief, then anger, then something like embarrassment for being caught off-guard.
Her hair was wet, clumped in dark strings, and she wore a faded hoodie that hung off her frame like a borrowed skin. I wondered if she’d left the bed at all since last night.
She stared at me, jaw tight. “You’re alive,” she said.
I nodded and shut the door behind me.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. The word felt so small it almost hurt to let it out. “About last night. About leaving you there.”
She looked down at the album, then back at me. “I thought you might have driven off a cliff or something. Up until I received your text.”
