By the time I woke up, Adrian was gone. Again. Vanished into thin air like he had a personal teleportation device tucked somewhere in his ego. Normally I'd panic, look for him, throw clothes around like a lunatic, or at least leave a passive-aggressive text that said, Congratulations on running off, hope you enjoy your freedom.
But not today. Not when I had a flight to catch.
Instead, I started packing. Slowly, because it was easier to pretend I wasn't trying to escape an entire summer of potential hell. My luggage sat open on the floor, half of my clothes hanging out like someone else had thrown them there. I scribbled a short goodbye note for him. It wasn't mushy or overly dramatic—stay safe. Or maybe a little less savage and in my heart I was hoping he'd actually take his time to read it, certain he'd read it.
By the time I left for the airport, my bag had somehow gained five pounds from extra sneakers I didn't need and the hoodie I probably wasn't allowed to wear on the plane. I was also carrying two energy bars because, why not, I didn't trust airline food.
The flight was long and ridiculous. I got a window seat, hoping for peace and maybe a nap. Instead, the guy behind me seemed to believe my window was his personal space. Every time I leaned forward for a glance, he'd stretch a hand out like a referee trying to close it. Then there was the woman beside me who alternated between snoring like a dying bear and digging in her nose with a fervor that made me question humanity.
The whole ride was excruciatingly annoying and slow, and when it finally landed, I had a newfound respect for people who enjoyed flights.
Seattle greeted me with that damp, cold kiss that felt more like an insult than a welcome. Oh, who am I kidding? I hate this city. The air was sharp, smelling faintly like wet concrete and despair. I rolled my luggage across the tarmac, trying not to think about the fact that this place looked so much different than the last time I had been here. Not forgetting I'm about to meet my mom and her husband and stepkids. I took out my phone and unblocked her, and made a mental note to self: I should block her again when this whole bullshit is over, and called her.
The phone rang once, twice… and then she picked up. "How was the flight, honey?"
I didn't answer. Honey? Who was she trying to impress with this niceness?
"Anyway," she said, cutting off the awkward silence, "I'll send someone to pick you up."
I immediately refused. "No, I can manage."
"You don't want to walk around carrying those bags," she said, like I was a child who couldn't handle wheelie luggage. "I'll have a car ready."
"Mom, just give me the address," I snapped.
She sighed. "I have a better idea. Just… wait."
Before I could argue, the line went dead. No warning, no pretense or anything...she hung up on me just like that!.
I stared at it like it had personally betrayed me. I didn't know whether to cry, curse, or start screaming in public. Eventually, I sat down on the cold curb, rolling the suitcase beside me, trying to convince myself this was fine. Totally fine.
Mentally, I wasn't ready. Not for my stepdad. Not for whatever small nightmare awaited me in that house I'd avoided for years. That old hag will NEVER hear me calling him dad, and frankly, I'd rather die.
But as I sat there, waiting, the gray clouds rolling over the city, the moment dragged me somewhere else entirely.
It reminded me of Dad.
Of when I was six, when I had run into the closet, crouched down, my hands pressing hard against my ears, trying to drown out my mother's yelling. She'd come home drunk again, tearing through the house like it was her personal wrestling ring. Glass shattered in the kitchen. Dad stood there, calm, always patient, even when she screamed that she hated him, that he was useless.
I remember him once saying, quietly, that she shouldn't display this kind of behavior in my presence. I think he said my name, too, though I couldn't tell if it was a warning or a promise. But Mom didn't care. Not ever. She tossed dishes across the floor, shouting nonsense, making every sentence a threat, every breath a weapon.
Another memory snapped into focus. I had tried to protect Dad once. I was tiny, barely big enough to hold a broom, but I threw myself in front of her. She held a knife to his throat like it was nothing. I clung to her leg, teeth digging in, trying to stop her, trying to be a tiny vice that could prevent a murder. I tasted something metallic on my tongue—blood, probably hers. But she yanked me off, yanked my hair, hit me twice across my face. I remember Dad's voice snapping, for the first time full of rage. He hit her back. One clean, horrifying slap. Bruise forming instantly, lip busted. I think I heard him curse for the first time too.
The flashbacks left me shaking; they took me to the darkest corner of my mind that I never allow myself to visit. Seattle's cold air barely grazed my skin anymore. It didn't matter. I felt like a six-year-old again, small and terrified, holding onto ghosts instead of luggage.
I let out a sigh as I glanced at my watch. I wasn't ready for today. Not the city, not the summer, not her. And definitely not the unknown man who had somehow wormed his way into my life as a stepdad. But then I don't think I could've survived another day with Adrian and his on-and-off attitude. The other day I saw him being a little too friendly with my best friend. I'm still not certain if I should be concerned or I'm overthinking things.
"Ava, for crying out loud, stop all this childishness. There is nothing wrong with me having female friends," Adrian had once said to me when I caught him in a restaurant with a girl who looked younger than me, probably eighteen or something, after he lied to me saying he'd be out with the boys.
My thoughts were interrupted.
I felt it before I saw it. A splash of cold water across my face and I immediately gasped, and the suitcase toppled. My hand flew to my phone. It wasn't even in my hand anymore. I crouched down to pick it up, the wheels of my luggage skidding on the wet pavement.
"Who the hell—" I started, but the words collapsed in my throat the moment I looked up. His eyes stopped me cold. One was hazel green, sharp and unsettling, the other a deeper hazel brown that felt almost too calm. The contrast was jarring, wrong in a way that made it impossible to look away. And he just stood there in his rumpled tracksuit, hair messy as if he'd just rolled out of bed, and as my eyes traced over him, they landed on the cup in his hand, the one that had just doused me.
He was unfairly good-looking, the kind of pretty that felt like a trap. Clean lines, confident posture, a face that knew exactly what it could get away with. I refused to acknowledge it, even to myself, because noticing how attractive he was felt illegal somehow, like admiring something that was meant to hurt you if you got too close.
"Will you get up? I don't have all the time in the world," he said.
His voice was low and unhurried, the kind of deep that slid under your skin before you could stop it, edged with an accent I couldn't quite place but felt rather than understood. It carried authority, impatience, and something else—something that made my pulse trip even as irritation flared. I hated how it caught my attention, how easily it did, like my body reacted before my pride could intervene.
"Excuse me?" I say.
"You are excused. Now get the fuck up and get that garbage of yours and get in the car."
I blinked. Once. Twice.
Trying to blink the confusion away.
What the hell?
"Aren't you the one who just poured me water a moment ago? Not to think I don't even know who you are and already you're telling me I should—"
He cut me off with the most dramatic sigh ever known to mankind.
"Your mother sent me here, turdface. Now get in the car, you weirdo. You should know listening to your stupid voice and weird accent feels like I'm dragging my balls on shattered glass. IT. FUCKING. HURTS."
And with that, he walked away.
Wait. This can't be. I hope I don't turn out to be related to this asshole.
I didn't want to move. In fact, I wanted the earth to swallow me whole.
But he called out again. "Hey, you fake piece of shit! Are you coming?"