Page 16 of Don’t You Cry

I really wasn’t talking to myself. I was sketching and whispering descriptions of the fabric I wanted to use. But explaining that would only make it worse.

Suddenly, the bathroom door swings open. My shoulders stiffen. Mom sees. For a flicker—so brief my heart skips—shame crosses her face. But then Wade strides into the kitchen, jeans hanging low on wet hips, button undone.

Water drips from his dark chest hair into the coarse denim. He smells like his own sweat, last night’s beer, and Mom’s perfume, even after supposedly showering. I’m convinced he just stands under the water without using soap.

“Domestic as fuck in here,” he says as he pads to the fridge, scratching at the tattoo on his neck. He grabs one of his energy drinks that I think tastes like pure gasoline, then slams the fridge door closed.

He cracks the top of the can open, takes a swig, then looks at the counter. “Where’s the fifty I left you?” he demands.

Mom rolls her eyes at him. “What fifty? When do you ever leave me money?”

“I put it on the counter,” he grunts, face beginning to twist in anger.

“Well, it’s gone.” Mom sighs, then takes another drag.

Wade’s eyes flick to me.

“I didn’t take it,” I say quickly.

“I didn’t ask you.” He steps closer, and my stomach clenches. Backing away only fuels his power, but standing still—sometimes that unsettles him.

His gaze roams over me before he plucks a lock of blond hair between damp fingers. “Still think you look like a gay chick. Told you that you should just shave it all off.”

Mom snorts. I fixate on his bare feet against the cold tile. Don’t cry, don’t make a scene. He only touched my hair. That’s all.

“I’m going out,” I say, voice thinner than I want.

He drops the strand of hair and scratches his jaw. “Yeah? Where?”

“The thrift store. I’ll go to work from there.”

“Thrift store? For what?”

“Fabric,” I whisper.

He turns to Mom; she makes a vague rotating gesture at her temple.

Wade’s smile grows. “Oh. Your little dresses.”