Chapter 8

My chest started aching again, my head was pounding, and my throat was burning up.

I remembered how the motel owner eyed the meds in my hand with a look of pure disgust as I was checking in.

He warned me that if I damaged or dirtied anything, I'd have to pay double.

I forced myself out of bed, staggered into the bathroom, and hunched over the toilet, puking.

Vomit tinged with blood overflowed in the toilet.

My phone started to ring.

It rang once, then again, nonstop.

I had no idea how long I'd been hunched over the toilet. When I finally staggered out, the ringing was still going.

I flopped back onto the bed, gasping for air as I grabbed my phone and answered the call.

It was the first time in forever that my dad actually called me.

Only when I heard his voice did I realize I wasn't seeing things.

He sounded cold and detached. "You still have a key to the house, right? Give it to Sophie. She's moving in."

I was so weak I could barely move, and I managed to gasp, "I can't come over right now.

"Maybe you could get another one made, or I can bring it over some other time?"

He was totally blunt, not even giving me a chance to argue. "I need it now."

I felt helpless.

Maybe he wanted the key for Sophie, but maybe he was worried I might come back again.

He'd already told me I wasn't allowed to come back.

But I was too weak to go out right now, so I tried to negotiate. "Can I bring it over tomorrow morning? I'll try to come as early as I can."

He shot back, cold as ice, "No."

I was drenched in cold sweat.

I was so exhausted that I closed my eyes, unable to say another word.

After a long silence, I finally heard him say, "I'll come get it myself."

I really didn't want my dad to see me like this—so pathetic and broken.

But I was too drained to argue anymore. At that point, I didn't care, so I gave him my address.

I let my phone fall from my hand and slipped into a heavy, exhausted sleep.

I had no idea how long I'd been out when I vaguely heard someone knocking on the door. It sounded like they'd been at it forever.

I stumbled out of bed, my vision blurry as I made my way to the door.

I heard my dad's angry voice coming from somewhere far off.

He said, "What kind of hellhole are you living in?

"There are a bunch of thugs smoking and fighting right outside the door. Did Lucas bring you here?"

He always thought I was head over heels for Lucas, and that I spent all my time hanging around with him.

When he finished talking, he glanced at my face. Suddenly, his expression went stiff.

It was probably because I looked like death warmed over.

Too exhausted to explain, I shoved the key into his hand and staggered back to bed.

My dad took the key but didn't leave. He stood there, leaning on his cane, and followed me into the room.

The old light was dim.

He walked up to the bed and watched me through the haze with a cold, distant gaze.

Something about him felt off.

He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn't get the words out.

That unsettling feeling crept over me again.

It felt like he was sad, like he genuinely felt sorry for me.

I didn't even know what was going on with me.

I barely cried in the past seven years, but these last couple of days, every time I saw him, I wanted to fall apart. All I could do was squeeze my eyes shut.

My chest hurt so bad, and my hands and feet were freezing cold.