I wait at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, while she gathers her shit into a pile on top of her car. Josh’s front door opens and keys are thrown, I assume hers, but I don’t get a chance to ask because he’s running down the stairs toward her. I chase after him, trying to get him to stop. He stands in front of her while a single firework goes off for the last time. Now we’re surrounded by nothing but still, dead, air. “You’re fucking insane,” she says to him. He doesn’t respond, just storms past her and opens the toolbox in the tray of his truck. He pulls out a board, flips it in his hand and then raises it above his head…

I yell, or at least try, for him to stop and I rush toward him. With my arms around his waist I beg for him not to do what he does next. I beg and I cry until he pushes me off of him and I find myself on my knees, watching the boy I love destroy one of the few things he loves. Over and over, I watch him smash a skateboard into his truck, shattering it to pieces. And when one board can no longer take his assault, he pulls out another. And then another. And all I can do is watch him—watch the destruction caused by years of pain, of anger, and of neglect and I cry. I cry into my hands, my heart breaking, until I feel a presence next to me.

Grams kneels beside me, holds my hand, and we lower our heads.

And then we pray.

We pray until the sounds of splinting wood and shattered glass and metal finally stop and are replaced with Josh’s quiet sobs. I stand up and go to his apartment where I find his phone on his nightstand and I call Robby.

I need help.

He doesn’t answer.

So I call the only other person I can think to call.

25

-Joshua-

The only source of light comes from the moon and from the porch but still, I can see the cracks and the splotches of blood as they begin to pool in the lines of my hands, all caused by the layers of wood that splinted and punctured my skin. My breaths are loud—heavy—but unwilling to settle and I feel like that same kid three years ago standing in the alleyway between two buildings, kicking the shit out of brick wall because life fucking hates me. And then a light shone upon us and Chazarae showed up, saving us.

But no one can save me now.

I can’t even save myself.

And I sure as hell can’t save him.

A car pulls in and screeches to a stop. The headlights blind me as I stumble to stand. Doors open and close and the familiar outline of a body walks toward me. My eyes narrow at Becca. “You fucking called him?” I snap. And the rage is back because he’s the last fucking person I want to see right now.

“What the fuck is going on?” Hunter says, eying the broken boards and my damaged truck.

“Fuck off, Hunter. Go home,” I whisper, walking toward him. I push his chest and he pushes me back. Two years ago he was bigger, stronger. Now I’m sure I can take him. Because he’s confused, and I’m angry, and anger always wins.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snaps, hiding his wife behind him. His confusion turns to fear and he should be afraid—he has no fucking idea who I am anymore.

He chose that.

Not me.

“You, Hunter!” I press a finger into his chest and stand toe to toe with him. “You’re what’s fucking wrong with me. You said we, Hunter. You said no matter what happens, always we! And the first chance you get, you fuck off with Chloe and you leave me and Tommy behind! There’s no fucking we, Hunter. It’s just me. It’s always been just me!” His eyes are wide as he takes in my words. But I don’t fucking care. I don’t care about anything.

I turn to Natalie, but I don’t look at her, because if I do I’m sure I’d puke. “Did you hear that, Nat? Three fucking years I’ve done everything alone because you’re a selfish coward and you can’t ever think about anyone but yourself. Do you remember what you said? You said, ‘Promise we’ll do it together.’ And I did. I fucking promised you and we had son!” I shout. “We had a fucking a son and it meant nothing to you! How the fuck do you live with yourself? How?” I wipe my eyes, my tears unstoppable. “And then you come here,” I say through a sob, my voice lowering. “You come here and you act like it doesn’t matter. Like your fucked up choices didn’t affect me or Tommy or time, and while you spent the past three years fucking any guy who wasn’t turned off by your stretch marks, the marks made by MY son… you know what I’ve been doing? I’ve been killing myself trying to raise OUR kid. Trying to do everything right so he doesn’t ever feel like he needed you in his life. But he did, Nat. He fucking needed you. So did I. And you just left!” Every single part of me breaks. Inside. Outside. All of it. I turn to Becca, her tears matching mine. “And you…”

Next to her, Chazarae warns, “Don’t, Joshua.” So I turn to her instead. “Do you know how hard it is to not know… to not understand why you did what you did but every day I feel like I’m under so much pressure to be perfect—to not fuck up—so I’m worthy of you and your fucking generosity and I’m so scared of fucking up. So scared. But here I am! I’m fucking up!”

“Josh!” Becca yells.

I face her, watching as her hand covers her mouth and her shoulders heave with each sob. “I hate you, Becca.”

Chazarae throws her arms around Becca’s shoulders and tries to guide her away, but she holds her spot, wipes her cheeks, and lifts her chin.

She wants to hear it.