by Kelley York
“I know that. We weren’t happy, Ash. That’s all there is to it.”
The wrapper crinkles as I compact it into a little ball. “Because of Chance.”
He stiffens and goes impossibly still.
“Chance told me he kissed you. On New Year’s.”
Hunter’s hands squeeze his knees once, then he stands. “I’m going to bed.”
So much for broaching the subject carefully. I throw the wadded-up wrapper at his back. “The world isn’t going to implode if you talk about it.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he snaps. “I’m not— You know I’m not interested—”
“In other guys?”
“In him.” He turns around, spreading his arms wide. “Why in the hell would I ruin a friendship we’ve built for more than a decade?”
I lean back, studying the shape of him with the TV serving as a backlight. Not saying a word because I sense he isn’t done.
“I can’t be with someone who has no plans for his life, or who can’t even be honest about something as stupid as what his parents do for a living. Give me a break.” He begins pacing, one hand on his hip, the other pushing through his hair. It’s rare to see Hunter so distraught over something. Usually, I’m the one flipping out and he’s the voice of reason. But this is about Chance. There are no rules where he’s concerned.
Hunter continues. “He’s irrational and impulsive. And it’s fun, sure, doing stupid shit like that. But we’re growing up, and it won’t get us by in the real world. I have no idea what I’m going to do for a career, or college, or…anything. But I am not going to pretend to be a teenager forever, overlooking every lie Chance wants to throw my way.”
He’s trying to rationalize. Because it’s the sort of person Hunter is, and it’s how he’s gotten through life. He rationalizes that Boyfriend Bob is what helped Carol get over our dad. That it’s fine for Carol to keep Hunt so busy with school and sports because it will look good on college applications. Or that it’s fine if Bob and Carol drink because they aren’t angry, violent drunks. He rationalizes everything. Only with Chance has he ever let go and had fun no matter how stupid or reckless it might be.
I don’t know if having a them—Hunter-and-Chance—would be a terrible idea or a brilliant one, but above all else, I have to point out the exact same thing Chance told me. “I think you’re overreacting.”
“No, I’m not. You don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly,” I snap. “Because, surprise! I feel it, too.”
He stops pacing and stares at me, arms falling limply at his sides. “What?”
It’s more than I meant to say, but maybe it needs saying. I fold my hands in my lap and stare at them to avoid meeting his gaze. When I don’t speak, Hunter says, “You and him…?”
“No. There is no me and him. There’s what I feel for him, and there’s you and him.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Please. You knew. You accuse me all the time of flirting with him.”
A guilty frown tugs at his brows. “I just thought…”
“You didn’t think, Hunter,” I say, and I’m suddenly just…so tired. From all of this. The pair of them is exhausting. “I get it, you know. I do. I get why you’re scared and you’ve got this intense fear about feeling not in control and uncertain of any situation. But all you’re doing is listing excuses why you two shouldn’t act on whatever the hell it is you’re feeling.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“If you honestly aren’t entertaining the thought of being with him, why not just say you don’t feel the same way about him?” I ask. “Instead of giving all these reasons why you’ve got some doomed, destined-to-fail romance. Seems like a more logical solution for a logical guy like you.”
Hunter is defined by all the words he doesn’t say. So the fact he’s looking at me like I’ve winded him with a punch to the stomach, but not saying a word, is enough confirmation for me.
“You can’t say it because it’s not true. Right? You’re in love with him.”
His jaw tenses. “I don’t know why we’re talking about this.”
“Because it needs talking about.” I point at him. “You get pissed off at Chance for keeping secrets, but you can be just as bad. The difference is Chance makes up stories to fill in the blanks, and you leave it all hanging in the ether, unsaid. Does that really make you better than him?”
“It’s different,” he mutters.
I tilt my head. “Because he’s lying about his parents abusing him and you’re not?”
The words drop out of the air and stun us both into silence, because I’ve just spoken what we’ve both known and didn’t have the courage to directly say. Chance’s parents are hurting him. Have been hurting him since we were kids. I shouldn’t say anything, but how can I go on about being honest if I’m not being entirely honest myself? Like the fact Chance was here today.
“He stopped by earlier,” I reluctantly admit. “With bruises on his face.”
Hunter smoothes a hand over his jaw and turns away. I see him breathing in, breathing out, trying to pick apart what I’ve thrown at him. “How bad?”
I fidget, toying with the hem of my shirt. “He said he fell.”
“How bad?”
This is not going to end well. “Pretty bad.”
He gives a curt nod, turns, and heads for the front door. I leap to my feet and dash after him. “Hunter!”
“Stay here,” he instructs, but he doesn’t stop me when I worm out of the room and put myself in front of him, blocking his path.
I brace a hand against his chest. “I don’t think so! You’re not driving over there to cause problems. Will you stop for a minute and use your head?”
Hunter stops, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he looks down at me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so angry, and if it were anyone other than my big, teddy bear of a brother, I’d be scared. Slowly, I reach for his hand, which is clutching the car keys, and loop my finger through the key ring. He doesn’t relinquish them, but he’s listening.
Deep breath. “You don’t know what you’re walking into. What if you go over there and cause a scene, and we make things worse for Chance?” It’s brief, but a flicker of doubt and worry passes over his features.
“I want to get him out of there, Ash.”
“I know you do. So do I. But forcing him and confronting his parents isn’t the way to do it.”
He lets out a heavy, tired sigh. His anger is slipping away, and he’s thinking again. Good boy. “What if we just go talk to him? See if we can get him to come home with us?”
I debate this. It’s risking Hunter losing his cool again once we get there. He’s had a long couple of weeks. Guess even my almighty brother is entitled to a breakdown or two.
“I’ll go by myself,” I say.
“Forget it.”
“Then no deal.”
Hunter arches an eyebrow, a smile tugging at his mouth. “You think I can’t leave right now if I wanted to?”
“You think I can’t kick you where it counts and grab the keys?” I counter. “Fine. We’ll go together, but I’m driving, and you’ll wait in the car when we get there.”
He looks doubtful, but, slowly, his fingers loosen and I’m able to pull the keys from his grasp. Score one for me.
Hunter
The morning started out pretty clear, but sometime during my trip home from the airport, the snow began coming down in blankets. It’s remained steady, even after the sun went down. Driving on the unlit, poorly maintained road to Chance’s trailer park is not an easy feat. Ash hunches forward over the steering wheel, squinting into the darkness. It’s a picturesque opening scene for a survival-horror game.
One lone light is burning from a window in Chance’s house, and the beat-up truck belonging to his parents sits out front. Habit has me going for my seat belt until I remember I promised to wait in the car. Ash swings open her door, letting in a burst of icy air
that makes me shiver and hunker down in my seat. I watch as she approaches and ascends the steps, careful of her footing, and raps on the screen door.
She has to knock three times before someone answers. It’s hard to see through the snow and the fogged windows, but I can tell by the figure it’s Chance’s dad. I crank my window down halfway for a better look, ignoring the sting of cold air against my face. All I can make out is the dark outline of him in the lit doorway, looming over Ash like a bear.
“He’s not here,” Chance’s dad is saying. He doesn’t sound mean, just…curt. Clipped.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?” Ash is keeping a careful distance from him, likely without noticing. I wonder what kind of vibe she gets from the guy, looking into his face now that we know for sure what he’s been doing to Chance.
The anger begins to burn hot and vibrant under my skin, and I fight it back. Ash was right. I can’t get in this guy’s face and cause a scene. It would make things worse. I don’t pretend to know how she can remain so calm, though, especially now knowing that her casual flirting and closeness with Chance meant so much more to her than I thought it did.
“Nope. Try back later.” Mr. Harvey steps into the trailer, and the door closes. Ash takes a minute to regroup, sighing, before traipsing back down the steps and getting behind the wheel.
“He said—”
“I heard him.” I roll up the window. “What do we do now? Text and hope he’s not too pissed off at me to answer?”
“Pretty much.” Ash gives me a withering smile. “He never stays away for long. Don’t stress.”
Don’t stress. Right. She tells me that like she isn’t worried, but I know she is, because Ash isn’t capable of not worrying about everything.
…
I wake up repeatedly throughout the next two nights, checking my phone for any sign of Chance. He hasn’t called either of us. Hasn’t texted. His phone is going straight to voice mail, in fact. So either it’s off or it’s dead. Either way, not a good sign.
Neither is the fact he’s missed two days of work. Whenever he decides to show up again, I doubt he’ll have a job anymore. Poor Ash has had to hear about it from her boss. I guess it’s a good thing she hadn’t recommended him to begin with, or they might be looking twice at her.
In the entire time since we reunited with Chance, we haven’t gone more than twenty-four hours without contacting him. It happened now and again when we were little; he’d vanish for a few days, and he would come back saying his parents took him on an impromptu trip to see a family member or on a vacation. Now that we know better, now that we’re aware he stayed away so we never saw the bruises he couldn’t hide, the distance and not knowing is unbearable.
We’re approaching the seventy-something-hour mark.
Even Dad asks at dinner, “Where’s Chance been?”
Ash and I exchange glances, and I’m willing to bet she wants to tell him the truth as much as I do, but I don’t know if we should. If Dad made a call into his old cop buddies and they arrested Chance’s folks, then he denied the charges…what would happen? Chance would be pissed off at us for interfering when he told us not to, and his parents—
There is no right answer.
Ash shrugs around a bite of pot roast. “He’s been busy, and the idiot came down with a cold from running around in the snow without his jacket. We warned him.”
“Hmm.” Dad doesn’t look convinced. “Normally he comes over here for you two to baby him when he’s sick.”
Another shrug from Ash. We have no excuse for that. No reasoning. Nothing we can say that isn’t the truth, but the truth is not an option right now. A few seconds tick by, and I can’t help but ask, “You’ve never run into Chance’s parents before, have you? Like, met them around town or something?”
Dad pauses mid-sip of his milk and lowers his glass. “Why would you ask me that?”
I slouch in my chair. “It’s just a question.”
“Can’t say that I have. Not knowingly.” He’s studying me.
“What about his dad’s name?” Ash asks. I get why she’s pushing. Dad has to know something; he found Chance’s address for us, after all. We caught his mother’s name. Tabby, which has to be short for Tabitha. If we learned his father’s name, maybe we could figure out where he works. Though what we would do with that information, I’m not yet sure. I don’t think us showing up to his workplace and asking if Chance is all right would go over very well.
“Jeez, what’s with the inquisition here?” He holds up his hands. “What aren’t you two telling me?” In joined silence, we only stare at him. Dad finally gives up. “All right, all right. I can take a hint.”
After dinner, Ash and I get into the car and head for Chance’s house again. We stop halfway down the road because the snow is getting too thick to slog through, and no one has bothered to clear this backwater street that hardly anyone uses. In Dad’s truck, we could make it. In this little compact, it’d be risky. We sit, idled by the shoulder, staring ahead into the trees and endless white.
“We could walk it,” Ash murmurs. Any other day, I would roll my eyes at the idea. But I have the worst gnawing sensation in my gut, so I swing open the door and crawl out. I haven’t seen Chance’s bruises, which means I’m envisioning them in my head and wondering what would happen if, one day, Chance’s dad decided to just…not let him run away.
The thought leaves me cold down to my bones.
It’s a slow, arduous walk, with our hands tucked under our arms and heads bowed against the snow. If we’d been driving, we would’ve definitely missed the narrow turn-off for the trailer park in all this darkness. Junkers and abandoned vehicles in some yards are halfway buried, and the unoccupied trailers themselves look forgotten by time.
The trailer park feels empty and abandoned. All the lights are off in Chance’s house. We knock, wait a few minutes, and knock again. Repeat process. No one answers. There’s no point in sticking around in the cold for someone who might or might not show up. Defeated, we start back down the way we came. If no one is home, then I want to get the hell out of this creepy place.
Halfway down the stairs, Ash grabs my arms and says, “Look!”
I jerk around, catching only the tail end of a fluttering curtain in the window beside the front door.
“It was his mom,” Ash says. “She’s home!”
And not answering the door, it would seem. I stomp back up the steps and knock again, louder. “Mrs. Harvey, please open up!” Still, we’re met with resounding silence. What is she doing? What is she hiding from? “Please,” I repeat more urgently.
“We’re worried about Chance!” Ash peers through the window with her hands cupped around her face, trying to see inside. When Tabitha Harvey still doesn’t answer, I open the unlocked screen door, and Ash jerks upright, eyes wide. “What are you doing?”
I go for the doorknob. It doesn’t budge. That fact snaps me out of whatever place my mind just went to. What was I doing? Planning on marching in there and scaring some poor woman half to death while I demanded to know where her son is? I step back. “Nothing. Let’s go.”
We linger a few seconds more, searching the windows for some sign of Chance’s mom. She doesn’t make the mistake of peeking at us again.
During the walk back to the car, neither of us says a word. It’s too damned cold. We kick away some of the snow that’s piled up around the tires in our absence and get inside to relish the heater. Ash presses her hands against the vent.
“That was productive. Why was she hiding?”
“No idea. Maybe they’re tired of us stopping by. There’s always the possibility Chance asked her not to tell us anything.”
Ash frowns. “He wouldn’t do that.”
“A week ago, would you have thought he’d fall off the face of the planet?”
“Point taken.”
“But my gut feeling tells me he isn’t home. And if he isn’t home…” I swallow a deep breath. “…then he’s out there somewh
ere.”
We sit, letting the heat warm us, while watching the snow fall and the blackness stretching out ahead. Just us and the snowflakes gathering on the windshield. Thinking about Chance hiding somewhere out there in the cold.
…
Dad has fallen asleep on the couch. We put our coats away and slip out of our snow-caked shoes, leaving them on the front porch so the snow doesn’t melt all over the entryway. Ash vanishes upstairs to get changed because the bottoms of our jeans are a bit on the wet side. I nudge Dad awake and help him to his room before heading upstairs as well.
He didn’t ask where we went. He never does. Maybe some tiny part of me subconsciously wishes he would, because if we said we went to Chance’s but he hasn’t been home, it would spark more questions. More inquiries. Dad’s smart; he’d pick up on the fact something was wrong. Maybe he already has and simply hasn’t said anything.
I feel lost. All my life, I’ve had Dad to stand up and take care of all the really hard stuff. This might be the hardest thing yet, and now I’m floundering, at a complete loss for what to do, for what the right answer is.
After changing into sweats and a T-shirt, I pop into Ash’s room long enough to tell her good night. She’s flipping through photos on her camera. Christmas. New Year’s. Chance, with the bow on his head. Grinning. I sit on the bed beside her.
“He borrowed my old camera,” she says without looking up. “He swore up and down I’d get it back. So if he’s missing and hasn’t brought it back, has something happened to him?”
“You’re over-thinking,” I promise, sliding an arm around her shoulders and kissing the side of her head. “He’s all right. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Ash nods mutely. Nothing I say will convince her of that, and it likely won’t make her feel better, but it’s all I have to offer when I don’t really believe things are all right myself. I stay until she sets her camera aside and crawls into bed, then I flick off her lights and return to my room, figuring sleep is probably the best and only cure for this aching anxiety eating away at my insides.
