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"You'll have to pass this stuff up to me," I tell Riley, shoving everything into her arms. I scurry up the ladder, open the door, and immediately scream, which makes Riley scream, which also makes the thing lying on the treehouse floor jolt up and start screaming.
"Oh my god, what is it? Are you okay?" Riley shrieks from below.
"Chase?" I hiss at the same time. What the hell is Chase doing sleeping in the treehouse at one o'clock in the morning?
He looks at me wild-eyed and worried, like he thinks I'll get him into trouble. Granted, my parents are likely hurtling down the stairs right now, but they're not going to freak out or anything. That's when I notice Chase isn't his usual, strikingly handsome self. He has a bruise on his right cheek and a split lip. He looks like he's been in a fight.
"Are you okay?" I ask, reaching out to touch his cheek. "Why are you sleeping in here?"
"It's nothing," he says gruffly, gathering his things and making like he's going to leave. He doesn't have much; just a sleeping bag, a bottle of water, and a couple granola bars.
"What's going on, Lily?" Riley calls up.
"It's just Chase," I answer and turn back to the boy in question. "It's not nothing. You're bleeding and bruised."
"Just stay out of it, okay?" His sharp tone makes me recoil. Trying not to look hurt or offended, I climb back down the ladder to let him out. Mom and Dad are running outside in their housecoats when his feet hit the ground.
"What's wrong?" Mom huffs in a panic. When her eyes land on Chase and the state of his face, they immediately soften. She gets this weird look like she understands something I don’t. "Get the first aid kit, Matthew."
I have no idea what is going on. Mom just leads Chase into the house to fix him up, no questions asked. Naturally, Riley and I run after them.
"What happened to Chase?" I ask Mom.
"Nothing," Chase repeats as Mom dabs rubbing alcohol on his lip and Dad watches narrow-eyed from the corner. "I fell and got locked out of the house. My dad's working nights, so I couldn't get in."
Mom shoots Dad a look. The one that says, 'I don't believe a word coming out of this boy's mouth.' I agree. Chase is lying. I can always tell when he's not telling the truth because his words fly out of his mouth too quickly; like if he says the lie faster, we won't notice.
"Well, not to worry," Mom smiles, cracking one of those instant icepacks. "We'll fix you up, and you can stay in the guest room, Chase. Girls, you can run along and return to your seance or whatever you were doing with the candles and tarot cards."
A blush burns my cheeks, and I turn away, grabbing Riley's hand and leaving Chase with my mom and dad.
Over the next few weeks, our guest room becomes Chase's bedroom. He may as well move in permanently for all the time he spends at Maison Valentine. Sometimes he goes home, but he always comes back, and it makes me wonder why his dad doesn't miss him. Wouldn't a parent miss their only son if he's never home?
♥?
Chase
Four Years Later
Jeff Wilder is a son of a bitch.
Unfortunately, he's also my father. Before I moved out, we lived three streets over from the Valentines in a crappy, two-bedroom house that's since become a rundown shithole. Dad's let everything go to shit since Mom died, including his life. The only thing he didn't let go of was my hockey career. It's the one thing Mom wanted for me, and it's the only promise he kept.
She died when I was ten.
Jeff wasn't always a mean, angry drunk. When Mom was alive, he was the best father a kid could ask for. We were the family that picture frames used as placeholders. We were happy until Mom found out she had a brain tumour. Even then, we were sure she'd make it. She always made it. She was so alive; the glue that kept us all together.
And then she wasn't.
Sometimes I wonder if Mom knew she wouldn't make it through brain surgery. Maybe that's why she made Dad promise to keep me in hockey and see our NHL dream through. She obviously didn't think asking him to promise to love and care for me was necessary. Why would she? How could she have known her death would ruin us?
It started with booze. Dad would drink for days and miss work. I later found out Mom had an extensive insurance policy that helped fund my hockey career but also enabled his liquor addiction. By the time I was twelve, Dad must have thought I had grown big enough to withstand his fists because that's when I became his punching bag.
I'll never forget the first time he hit me. The Valentines had dropped me off after hockey practice, and I'd come home to a passed-out father and a half-naked woman on the couch. It was the first time I'd seen my dad with someone other than my mother and it made me furious. I threw a towel over the woman, called her a cab, and forced her to leave. When Dad woke up, he was livid. I'd yelled at him and called him a drunk. I told him Mom would hate him if she were alive. That was when he drew his fist back and knocked me out cold.
At the time, my only escape was hockey and the days I spent with the Valentines.
Angie and Matthew didn't ask questions, but I think they knew my cuts and bruises weren't from the rink. Everyone in this town knows my dad was, and is, a miserable drunk. To this day, I can't stand their pitiful glances. There's only one thing I hate more than the nosey people in my hometown, and it's the look of adoration Lily Valentine used to give me; like I was her hero just for telling Eric to shut up and stop teasing her.
