My dad comes home at five in the afternoon.

My body is curled up and my cheek is pressed against the arm of the chair. The TV is off and I stare at the dark screen as I hear the screech of tires in the driveway. I get up from the armchair as footsteps come bounding to the front door.

My dad walks into the house, his hand pressed to the back of his head. He slams the door shut behind him with accidental force and looks up, seeing me leaning against the doorframe. We stare for a moment before I break the silence.

"Did you drive?"

"I didn't drink," he says.

"That's not what I asked."

"I didn't drink," he repeats, eyes narrowing on me as he walks past. "Who's the adult here?"

The pungent smell of beer hits me as he brushes past me. I look down at the beer bottle that hangs from his fingertips, close to slipping from his sweaty palm. He grips it tighter.

"You did drink," I say.

He whirls around, his glare meeting my own. "I don't recall asking you to keep an eye on me, so why don't you just fuck off?"

A jolt grips my chest from his words. He's never said anything that harsh, even while hungover. I can't help the slithering fear that runs through me. It feels wrong. I shouldn't fear my own father.

"If I don't keep an eye on you, then no one will," I mutter. "What would Mom say, Dad? You're drunk driving. You're the husband of the woman who was the damn sheriff, for God's sake!"

"Dead woman!" my dad roars. "Dead! I'm not the husband of any living thing. I'm the husband of a dead thing. The stuff in the attic is a dead woman's stuff. You're the daughter of a dead woman. She's dead!"

"That's no excuse!" I exclaim. "You're drinking every night and driving around drunk like the law doesn't even fucking count for you! You're going to get killed!"

"I can do whatever I want!" Dad screams, taking a step forward.

I don't even see the beer bottle until it smashes into a million pieces against the wall right beside my head. A few chunks land in my hair and hit my arm on their way down to the floor. My eyes stay locked on the floor, my heart racing and my mouth open in shock.

Horrified shock.

I slowly look up at my dad and the movement makes pieces of glass slide out of my hair and land on the floor. He just looks at me and my eyes fill. I don't let any tears fall and I don't say anything. I just watch as he walks away while the horrendous realization of what he's just done settles over me.

Staring down at the glass on the floor, I feel sick.

That beer bottle was inches from my head. My own dad almost smashed a glass bottle over my head. My entire body shakes but no tears fall. My vision turns blurry and I can't see anything but a jumbled mess of colors around me.

I fall to the floor in one quick drop. Glass crunches beneath my feet and I clench my eyes shut, letting the tears seep out and the reality of what just happened close in around me.

The scary part isn't that he threw the bottle at me with no care or hesitation.

The scary part is that I can honestly say that I'm not too sure whether he intentionally missed or not.

***

The idea of spending the entire weekend alone with my dad in the house sets me on edge. It shouldn't. He's my dad and I shouldn't have to be afraid of him. But I can't even handle being in the same room as him right now, let alone trying to make some kind of conversation.

I turn over in bed and stare at the little clock on my bedside table. It's ten in the morning on a weekend and for once I don't want to be anywhere near the house.

Yesterday was tense and my dad spent the entire night upstairs and not eating a single thing. He was probably trying to sleep off his hangover. I had stayed downstairs and let the sound of the television lull me into a false sense of security that I latched onto tightly.

I didn't clean up the glass but when I had my own dinner and went upstairs to bed, I heard my dad walk out of his room and go downstairs. I could hear the scrape of glass being swept up from the floor lazily.

After that I feel asleep and tried to pretend that my dad wasn't even there. That he was out with the guys and would be back later. But now I can't pretend—he's here.

I get out of my bed and change into a pair of thin leggings and a hoodie. I wrap my arms around my torso and open my door a crack. I am met by silence throughout the house. I can't even hear the usual faint snores coming from my dad's room.

I head out into the hallway and the silence makes me think for a moment that maybe my dad isn't actually here. Maybe he walked off when I fell asleep and isn't back yet. But as I tiptoe past his bedroom door, I hear the rustle of sheets. I freeze, my foot inches from the floor, and wait for the door to open and for me to face him.

But it doesn't come.

I sigh in relief when I realize that he's just turned over in bed. I keep going, not letting go of the tension in my muscles until I reach the bottom step. I don't go to make breakfast like any normal day. Instead I stand in the middle of the foyer, looking in the mirror.

I bite my lip. I can't stay here for the whole day. I can't bear to face him. I don't want to accept his apology. This time I don't want to forgive him. I just want to go.

I look at my attire and decide it's enough to keep me warm outside seeing as the temperature is getting a little colder now.

I grab my socks that are still sitting in my boots from the day before and slip them over my feet, then put on my boots. I'm about to head out the door when an idea slips into my mind. I turn and walk into the kitchen, my boots making a louder noise than I expected, and take a granola bar from the cupboard.

I wait until I'm out of the house before I rip the wrapper off, making as much noise as I need without the worry of waking my dad. Biting into the food, I walk. And walk. And walk. The cool air is nice on my skin—calming, but also giving me the sharp bite that I need. I don't know really how long I've been walking but I guess around half an hour when I finally come up at my school.

The entire place is deserted, the wide building looking like a dead place as I walk over to it. I stop in the little bit of grass in front of the parking lot that separates me from the school.

There's a little wooden bench there and I sit down, leaning back and shoving my hands into the pocket of my hoodie, one hand fisting the granola bar wrapper. I let out a little laugh when I realize that out of everywhere to go on the weekend, I decide to go to school.

There are a few cars in the parking lot and now and then I hear one passing behind me, but otherwise the place is quiet, as if everyone is sleeping in. Apart from me. Here I am, trying to walk the day off and stay as far away from my own dad as possible. I wonder if maybe I should have left a note on the fridge, but then I ignore the thought. It will be fine.

The crunch of shoes walking through fallen leaves makes me jump slightly and I look over to see someone heading my way. Tyler is wearing all black clothes with his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. His face is scrunched up from the cold as he reaches me and comes to a stop at the edge of the bench.

"You stalking me now?" I ask with amusement.

Tyler rolls his eyes. "I usually go for a run. Can't exactly do that with the huge knife wound, so a walk was the next best thing."

"You go for a run at ten-thirty?" I raise an eyebrow.

Tyler shrugs. "Slept in. Took more pain meds and they made me drowsy."

I nod. "Is your cut okay?"

He lets out a humorless laugh. "Been better. Hasn't started to bleed out yet so I'm taking that as a good sign."

"You shouldn't really be up and about at all," I say. "You should be resting."

Tyler takes a step forward and slowly sits down beside me on the bench. "I'm okay. If I had to stay inside all day, I'd probably go insane."

I smile a little and pull my cardigan around me a bit tighter.

"Why are you here?" he finally asks after a break of silence.

I suck my inner cheek in between my teeth and stare down at the ground. Why am I here? I can easily just come up with a lie. Say that I need fresh air, too. Say that I always go for a walk at this time of day. Or maybe I could just stop lying. Maybe I could finally tell someone. I can't bring myself to tell Tally about my dad . . . so perhaps a stranger is the next best thing.

"I . . . " I start and then turn my head to look at him. His face still looks a mess and his eyes are steady on mine. "My dad," I say, and I want to slap myself. I don't know why I suddenly start to rattle everything off but I do. I guess it really is just the fact that he's a stranger, a boy I've known personally for just a few days. It eases the worry of being judged. I know that I should tell this to someone closer—I should tell this to Tally. She trusted me by telling me she's bisexual. I should trust her back. But this isn't just about trust. I'm not comfortable telling Tally yet. One day, but not now.

"He's a drunk." I speak firmly, but I feel weak inside. "It started when my mom died. I was fifteen . . . you don't want to hear this." I shake my head.

"It isn't a matter of whether I want to hear it," Tyler says softly. "It's whether you want to say it."

I lick my lips nervously. "Okay. Well my mom was a cop—the sheriff, to be exact. It wasn't a huge job, I mean there aren't really huge armed robberies or anything happening here, but she took her job seriously. Too seriously." I scratch the bridge of my nose and look down at the ground. "She picked me up from school one day when I was feeling sick. We stopped off at a little store to get some candy to make me feel better. She always did stupid stuff like that." I breathe out a laugh. "But when we pulled into a parking space, and I reached out to open the door, my mom's arm shot out and she stopped me. I didn't know what was happening until I looked up and saw a guy dressed in black inside the store waving a gun around. He was trying to get the worker to take all the money from the cash register.

"Many other people would have just walked away. Acted like they never saw it. But that wasn't my mom. She told me to get on the floor between the seat and the glove compartment. I asked her what she was going to do. She just smiled at me. I did what she told me, and watched her walk inside the store. She didn't even have a gun on her. She was off duty. But that didn't stop her. It never stopped her. She was always full of pride for the job, and being good and helping everyone. She helped everyone so much that this time she forgot to help herself. I watched her hold her hands up and the guy with the gun was thrashing it around everywhere. I could see her lips moving. She was trying to calm him down, coming closer and closer to him. He stopped moving his gun and I thought she'd done it. I thought she'd fixed everything.

"But in the next second, the gun was pointed right at her and it went off. He was so close to her that it knocked her right to the floor. I remember being scared shitless. I didn't know what to do so I just stayed on the floor and wrapped my arms around my legs as tightly as I could. I cried and stared at the floor until the police found me. The man with the gun got away. With the money."

Tyler is silent, and I can't tell if it's from lack of words or to give me the space I need. A part of me can't believe that I just told him all that. I feel like any second he's going to just laugh and walk away. But another part tells me that he's nothing like that. That he would never disrespect someone in such a way.

"So, then my mom was dead. Just like that," I continued. "There was nothing else to it. There was no slow breakdown or moment to process it. She was gone. It was the night of her funeral that I lost my dad too. He seemed normal during the day but then he went and drank through the night. I didn't see him for three days. Ever since he's been blank. He does stupid things and doesn't even think about the consequences for five seconds. He gambles our money away—I know he does."

I run a hand over my cheek as a tear falls. "I don't want to admit that he's really just an asshole."

More tears run down my cheeks. They run down my neck, making my skin wet and uncomfortable. Tyler still hasn't said anything and by now, my hands are covering my face and I'm hunching over my knees. Sobs rack through my body and I want to stop them. I want to grasp onto what little dignity I have left. But my wayward emotions won't let me. And so I continue to cry. And cry and cry and cry.

Until I feel a hand on my shoulder.

I move my head away from my hands and turn to look at Tyler, who stares back, his warm palm on the top of my cardigan. He doesn't move his hand, but just lets it sit there, and I cling onto that warmth that spreads through me from his touch.

"Sorry," I mumble and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.

Tyler shrugs. "It's okay to cry. And it's even more okay to cry after saying something like that. It obviously wasn't easy for you. Thanks for trusting me with it. I'm sorry for your loss."

I nod slowly. "I don't know why I trust you with it. I don't know why I just told you all of that. It just felt right. I'm sorry if it was too much."

Tyler shakes his head, slowly pulling his hand away but not before dragging it lightly down my back. "It's okay. Really, Franny. I don't mind."

"Thanks," I say quietly, rubbing the back of my hand over my face.

"You were there for me yesterday," he says. "So I'll be here for you today."

I laugh breathily through my tears and blink the last ones away. "Okay."

He gives me a genuine smile and puts his hand on my back once more. "Alright, come on."

He begins to stand up and I follow quickly to keep his hand on my back. It stays there. A soft wind blows over us, but it isn't unpleasant. It's welcoming and soothing. I cross my arms over my chest anyway and follow beside Tyler as we walk around the side of the school and down through smaller estates.

It's nice. Just a basic, normal thing to do. And that's what I need—some normality.

The whole time, his hand never leaves my back.