Page 69 of This Reckless Home

All I know is that I hurt, somewhere inside, a cut so deep I’m not sure how it’ll ever heal.

And I don’t know how to stop bleeding.

“BREATHE” BY TOMMEE PROFFITT, FLEURIE

NOX

She fits against me the way she always does, like she was made for the space under my arm.

I don't let go.

I should probably think about that. About the fact that my arms tightened on instinct when she tried to pull away, even as the words were still landing. Even as I was still working out what they meant.

Two hundred thousand dollars.

Nazi flags on the porch.

I know what those flags mean. Know it differently to Steele, maybe, but I know it. Spent enough of my life being too dark for some rooms and not dark enough for others. Getting called things that were meant to cut both ways at once.

White supremacists don't make exceptions for guys like me. Don't care that I'm only half. If anything that makes it worse to them.

She paid those people.

She's shaking slightly, and I can feel it against my ribs. It leaves me feeling jittery, like my skin is being covered in ice. Almost numb. Almost painful.

She paid those people and she's been carrying it alone. Yet she still went back out and she's going to walk into another house tonight and do it again and I don't⁠—

My breath leaves me in a shaky exhale.

I don't know what to do with all of that at once.

So I just hold on.

Maybe that makes me weak. Maybe it makes me complicit in something I haven't fully processed yet. Steele's silence from the front seat feels like a verdict I haven't reached. I don't know if that's because he's further along than me or because something in me doesn't want to get there.

What I know is this: she's trembling. And Noah is waiting. And the rest of it — all the fucked up rest of it — is going to have to wait until we're on the other side of tonight.

It doesn't go away just because I'm holding her.

I know that.

I just can't seem to let go.

“ARCADE - ACOUSTIC VERSION” BY DUNCAN LAURENCE

BLOSSOM

We drive down the road of a clearly working-class neighbourhood. The houses aren’t run down per se, but most of them need some work doing. And one or two of the front yards have rubbish or a rusted car in them. Ant pulls up outside the house I direct him to, and unsurprisingly it’s one of the worst on the street.

My jaw tightens as I reach for the door. I set aside the shame and worry from spilling my truth about Liam’s father and what I did. I have to. Noah needs me right now so I need to focus.

“If this goes wrong⁠—”

Ant doesn’t let me finish. “It won’t, Bloom. We’ve got you.”

I give him a sharp nod, then open the door and stride up the cracked and uneven path, hearing the guys follow after me. With a hand that’s surprisingly steady, I reach out and knock on the door. Paint flakes off onto my glove.

Mr. Marshall, Noah’s deadbeat dad opens it. He’s in his mid forties, wearing a stained white vest and is already half drunk. His brow drops low over yellowed and bloodshot eyes, and his skin is an ashen grey.