Bad at Love by Karina Halle
She’s staring at me expectantly, brow raised. You know, to leave.
So I do.
“Is Marina really out with her friend?” I ask, pausing at the door.
“Yes, she really is.”
“She’s not home?”
“No.”
“Then can you do me a favor?”
She narrows her eyes at me but there’s a slight smile to her lips. “I thought I just did you one.”
“It will only take a few minutes.”
Chapter Twenty
Laz
“Mercy in You”
My phone rings, blasting its way through my dreams until I'm awake.
I reach over to the nightstand and fumble for it.
Marina.
It has to be her.
Please God, let it be her.
Even with my brain heavy from sleep, it's the first thing it latches onto.
Her.
Hope.
Hope that maybe, after everything, maybe she's willing to give me another chance. Maybe she can see what an idiot I've been, maybe she can search through my layers of bullshit, the armor and the masks, and find that part of me that's worth a second chance.
Maybe when she came home tonight after her night out, she saw what I did to her house.
But when I lift up the phone to my face, my eyes blinking rapidly at the garish light shining in my face, I don't see Marina's name come into view.
It's Noah's.
And it's past midnight.
The boy rarely calls me and never at this hour.
Without even knowing why, my heart is already in my throat.
Something is very wrong.
I answer it. "Noah?" I say, my voice craggy.
I hear sobbing in response.
Noah's crying.
Something inside my chest drops.
"Noah?" I say again. "Is that you? Are you okay? What happened?"
More sobbing, sniffling. Then someone yelling in the background.
"I'm going to kill you, you faggot!"
Daryl's voice strikes through the air, the fear going straight to my heart.
"Noah!" I yell. "What's happening?"
"He knows," he manages to say through a pained sob. "Laz, I need help."
And then the yelling stops. His cries stop.
The line goes dead.
Holy shit.
I stare at the phone, wondering if I should call back. But if Daryl "knows"...no, there is no but. He does know. He knows and who knows what he's doing to him. If Noah needs help, he needs my help.
And if Daryl laid a finger on him, god help me.
I know I should maybe call my mother but there's no saying what side she would be on or what she knows. I should probably call the police too, but I don't know the situation or what I'm up against. All I have to go on is Noah calling me, crying, asking for help and Daryl yelling, calling him a faggot. I have a pretty good idea of what's going on but I don't want to get Noah in trouble either.
I get out of bed, slip on my track pants and a T-shirt and sneakers and I'm out the door, in my car and heading up to Santa Clarita at the speed of light,
I have no idea what to expect and I'm kneading the steering wheel as I drive, going over all the possibilities. For the first time since I broke up with Marina, I'm having to deal with something that hasn't involved me and I'm not sure if I'm going to be as level-headed as I can be. If Daryl hurt Noah in anyway, physically, there will be actual hell to pay. There's far too much pent-up anger and aggression rolling through me that really needs an outlet. Getting a few punches in will feel a fuckload better than penning a few angsty poems, but even so, I need to be careful. I can’t let rage get the best of me.
When I pull up to the house though and go through the gates, I'm surprised to see all of the lights in the house are off.
Surprised and disturbed.
You'd think that with the amount of yelling I heard, that lights would be on somewhere. There's no way my mother could have slept through that, she would have to be up.
Unless she's out. Unless they're all out now. Who knows where they could be. Maybe Daryl was arrested. Maybe my mother packed herself and Noah up and they fled. Maybe they're all asleep and Noah was overreacting over a basic argument. Maybe I'm about to burst into their house and find out that there's absolutely nothing wrong—and then get Noah in trouble for real.
I'm starting to think that the latter might be correct. That is until I jog up to the front door, ready to knock, and see that it's already ajar.
Oh shit. Not a good sign.
I push it open and poke my head in. There's one light on in the kitchen, the one above the stove.
"Hello?" I call out because the last thing I want is for Daryl to bring out his handgun and think I'm an intruder.
But even though I hear the shuffle of someone in the kitchen, I don't hear them say anything. Someone is staying silent.
Cold dread coats my back. It's almost enough to make me turn around and head back out.
But I don't.
I keep walking, slowly, my sneakers creeping silently along the tile floors.
It's then that I notice things as I pass them.
A side table knocked over, picture frames face down, their glass shattered.
I tip-toe around the broken glass, keep going.
I pause in the archway into the kitchen.
My mother and Noah are sitting at the table across from each other.
Neither of them are talking.
My eyes go to Noah first and he's staring at me with dried tears on his ruddy face, wearing jeans and a silver long-sleeved shirt. His mouth is smudged red but it's unnatural, the red from lipstick, not from blood.
I feel a hit of relief, the fact that so far he looks completely unharmed. At least physically.
Then I look at my mother.
My heart stills in my chest.
Her eye is purple, crusted blood beneath her nose.
Holy fuck.
"What—" I start to say but my mother immediately raises a finger to her lips.
I practically sprint toward her, crouching down beside her at the table.
"What the fuck happened?" I whisper wildly, looking between the two of them. "Was this Daryl?"
My mother doesn't say anything, just looks down. Ashamed. The same look she used to have with my father.
I look to Noah. "Was this Daryl? Was it your father?"
He nods, his eyes nervously darting to the hall. I look over my shoulder but there's no one there.
"Yes," he whispers, his voice raw with shame. "I...I broke the rules. I stayed out late. Really late. Past curfew. My friend dropped me off and I thought I would sneak in. He's got his driver's license, it's okay. We were just hanging out at his house, his parents were home and everything, they knew I was there, it was cool. They’re really accepting." He pauses, wiping his nose. "And then dad caught me sneaking in. I was wearing this. I had on makeup. I thought I could get in my room and wash it off before he saw. He lost his shit. He...he threatened to kill me. He came after me. I ran, I escaped, went around him. I ran through the house."
He glances at my mother. "Sarah woke up. Started yelling at him to leave me alone. He came after me again, she went in front to protect me and he hit her. Then he threw her to the ground and said he was coming for me. I had to run outside and hide."
The anger rising through me, the flames licking, burning me, are like nothing else. "Where is he now?" I manage to say, choked.
"Upstairs," my mother says quietly. She looks up, her eyes meet mine and I see a tired vulnerability that was never there before. "You need to go Laz."
I shake my head, getting to my feet. "Go? Go? I just got here. I'm just getting started."
"We'll sort this out on our own," she says.
“Have you called the cops?”
She shakes her head. “No. What will they do?”
I almost laugh. “Are you serious? Mum, you have to call the cops. This
“You know he’s powerful,” she says meekly, pleading with her eyes. “You know that he has people eating out of the palm of his hand.”
“If you don’t call the police, I will.”
“Laz, please. Don’t. Do it for me. Don’t ruin Noah’s life.”
“Noah’s life?” I repeat. “You have got to be…I can’t believe you.”
“I’m scared,” she snaps at me, tears filling her eyes. “Okay? I’m bloody scared and I don’t know what to do. I just don’t. Okay? I don’t.” She starts to cry, breaking down in front of me like she never has before.
Despite everything that has gone wrong between us, I put my hand over hers. Then I look at Noah. “You know we have to call the cops.”
“I know,” he says. “But I’m afraid that…he won’t get put away. And then he’ll hurt me. You know what he said? That I wasn’t his son. That I was a disgrace. That I’ll never be a proper man and I might as well off myself if that was the case.”
Again, my blood boils over.
Rage seethes and seethes.
“He basically told me to kill myself,” he cries. “My own fucking father.”
“Noah,” my mother says softly but doesn’t add anything more.
“Fine,” I tell them, letting the anger fill me like tar, black, oozing, sticky. “I’ll fix it myself.”
“Laz,” my mother hisses.
But I’m already walking off through the kitchen.
Past the broken frames.
Up the stairs.
Down the hallway toward the master bedroom.
The lights are off.
I can hear Daryl breathing.
Raspy exhales in the darkness.
I’m sent back in time, to when I was a child, approaching my father. The sleeping bear you never wanted to wake sometimes. I learned to become extremely adept at walking quietly, not making a sound, not existing.
But this time, I’m not here to be quiet.
I stand at the foot of the bed, eyes focused with laser precision on the figure lying across it. How fucking dare he try to sleep right now after what he did. He should be begging my mother and Noah for mercy. He should be turning himself in. He should be shaking with fear.
He’s none of that.
“Get the fuck up,” I say, my voice breaking with anger.
He stirs and then flips over. I can’t see his eyes but I know he’s looking at me.
“What?” he asks.
Groggy. He’s actually fucking groggy from a deep fucking sleep.
“I said get the fuck up!” I yell at him. “Get the fuck up you bastard.”
“Laz? What the fuck are you doing here?”
I’m not myself right now.
The Laz I knew leaves my body behind.
I go around the side of the bed and reach down, grabbing him by the shirt and yanking him out of bed. Daryl’s not a tall guy but he is big and stocky and built like a bull and yet I’m able to get him out of bed, to his feet.
I don’t know what my plan is.
I don’t have time to think about what my plan is.
“Who do you think you are,” Daryl is saying pushing me back. “Get the fuck out of my house!”
I’m pushing him back, one hard shove that sends him back into the wall. “You fucking hurt my mother. You’re going to pay for that!”
“Like you suddenly give a shit!” he growls back. “Your mother provoked me. She got in my way.”
“You were going to hit your son!”
“He is not my son!” he yells, louder, as if he wants Noah to hear him. “He is nothing to me, no son of mine dresses like a girl, wears makeup. It’s disgusting and he should know better, have more respect than to do something like that. I’m his father! He owes me!”
“No one owes their father anything!”
“Oh fuck off, Laz,” he snarls and in the dark I can see the beady glint of his eyes. “What would you know about having a father anyway? I know he left you. Can’t say I fucking blame him.”
I don’t think.
I just swing.
Hit Daryl right in the jaw.
My fist cries out in pain.
He goes flying back against the wall, bumping into the bedside table and knocking over yet another picture frame that shatters into thick shards when it smashes against the tiles.
I’m tense, ready for what he’s going to do next.
He comes at me, but he goes low, tackling me at the waist.
He brings me down to the floor in a heap, the back of my head smacking the tiles.
Stars explode behind my eyes.
A fist fight ensues.
I throw punches up.
He throws them down.
We’re both fighting dirty. Both bloody.
I’m fuelled by decades of rage and resentment over my father, I’m fuelled by a protectiveness over Noah and my mother.
He’s fuelled by nothing but fear and loss of pride. Fear that he will lose everything when this fight is over, because I will make sure he does. Loss of pride because it’s shameful to lose face in front of his stepson and wife.
I think I might just win.
With a loud roar, I flip over and start pounding him in the face. His hands go up to protect himself from the blows. I can’t feel anything anymore. I can only hear my heart in my ears, a constant heavy thud.
I am a monster.
Just like my father.
It’s enough to make me pause and during that pause, Daryl gets me with an uppercut, hard enough to make me fly back onto the floor again.
Then there is screaming.
My mother screaming for us to stop.
Noah yelling that the cops are on the way.
The light comes on and I can barely see through my swollen eyes. The room starts to spin.
Daryl is on the floor beside me, in bloodied pajama pants, ready to come at me and keep fighting. He’s picked up a shard of broken glass, wielding it like a knife, not caring that blood is pouring from his palm.
I need to get up but everything is working so slowly, my limbs like they’re stuck in quicksand.
Noah picks up a vase from the dresser and with a blood curling scream, comes running across the bedroom, slams the vase down on Daryl’s head, shattering it.
My mother screams again.
Daryl staggers and then collapses, passing out cold.
Holy shit.
“I’m so sorry!” Noah cries out, hands to his mouth. “Oh my god, did I kill him? I killed him! I’m so sorry!”
“You didn’t kill him,” I manage to say, my mouth tasting like blood. I get on my knees and crawl over to Daryl just as my mother takes Noah back by the shoulders, pulling him away.
I feel for a pulse. He has one. It’s strong. His back rises and falls, breathing deeply.
I glance up at Noah and wince. “You didn’t kill him. He’s just knocked out. He’ll wake up with a wicked headache and probably need stitches for that hand, but that’s about it.”
“He’ll wake up in jail,” my mother says flatly and I can’t tell if she’s forlorn by that or not.
“You’re right,” I say, staring at her. “He will wake up in jail. I might be in jail with him.”
“You were only defending yourself,” Noah says.
Technically I was defending Noah. But I did punch Daryl first. When he comes to, there’s no doubt he’ll tell them what I did. I am not innocent here.
“You’re not going to jail, Laz,” my mother says. “I’ll tell the cops what he did to us. I’ll tell them you defended us.”
I know I shouldn’t be surprised that my mother is taking my side over Daryl’s but I am.
I’m even more surprised to hear it for myself later when the cops are questioning us in the kitchen. Daryl woke up just in time and was placed in handcuffs before being hauled to the hospital.
<
“Thanks,” I tell my mother after they leave. “For that.”
She nods, rubbing her frail hands together. “I should have done that a long time ago with your father.”
She looks so…alone.
My heart pinches.
I get up from my chair and walk over to her, pulling her into a hug. “It’s never too late to start again.”
She wraps her arms around me and quietly cries. I don’t know how long we stand there like that. Our relationship will always be damaged, always be tainted by our past. But maybe, just maybe, there can be another phase of it, where we are better versions of our past selves.
“Laz,” Noah says.
Still holding onto my mother I look over at him in the doorway. “Yah?”
A tiny smile tugs at his lips. “Your ride is here.”
I frown. “My ride? Noah, I have a car.”
“And you aren’t driving in your condition,” my mother says.
“Then I’ll stay overnight here, sleep in my old room,” I tell her.
“But your ride is here,” Noah says again. Then he jerks his head toward the front door.
What the fuck is going on?
I let go of my mother and walk through the kitchen all the way through the foyer to the front door.
I open it.
A yellow VW bug with a bee decal on the side is parked in the driveway, engine running.
Bloody hell.
I look behind at Noah.
“Why is she here?”
“I called her,” he says, now with a bit of a smirk.
“Why?”
“Because she’s your best friend, isn’t she? And your best friend should be there for you. I told her what happened and she said she was coming right over.”
I have a hard time believing that and yet here she is.
My heart starts to skip.
“Noah...”
“Hey, don’t get all mushy with me. Go home.”
“You did the right thing in calling me, you know?”
“I know. Now go. We’ll be okay.”
“I don’t want to leave you both.”
He pushes at my shoulder. “We’ll be okay. I’ll take care of Sarah.”