"Stop! I'll take it!" Dylan cries. Tears are running down her face.

"Dad, please," I say, reaching across the table as if I can somehow stop this. This is crazy. He's using too much pressure. The skin of Dylan's jaw is turning white where his fingers are pressing into her face.

"You sit down. I told you she was a bad influence on Dylan. She should’ve never been allowed back in this house." He shoves two pills into Dylan's mouth, seemingly oblivious to the tears that are dripping onto his hand. "Swallow it, girl. Do you hear me? You swallow it right now." He pushes her mouth shut, covers her nose and lips with his big hand until she swallows.

I glance to Mom for help, but she's not even looking at us. Her gaze is pinned on the back wall as if by pretending she can't see this insanity, it doesn't exist.

"You done?" he demands.

Dylan nods miserably, but Dad still doesn't let her go. He forcibly opens her jaw again and runs his finger inside her mouth, even to the back of her throat until she gags. Finally, when he's satisfied, he releases her and sits down, calmly wiping his hands on the napkin, and then picks up his phone.

"May I be excused?" Dylan says stiffly.

"Of course, dear," Mom answers as if nothing out of the ordinary just took place.

Dylan flees from the table. I stare after her.

"I..." How do you tell your parents that you disagree with their parenting? That this is all wrong. That they shouldn’t be treating their children like this.

"I can see you're upset, Hartley,” Mom adds, “but your sister really needs this medication and sometimes when she doesn't take them, she hurts herself. Your father is simply trying to protect her."

"It doesn't seem like that.” Without another word, I flee the dining room, running after Dylan.

She’s locked herself in her bedroom. I can hear the muffled cries. My own jaw aches in sympathy. “Hey, it’s me.”

“Go away,” she snarls. “I was fine until you came along.”

“Please, I just want to help.”

“Then go away!” she screams. “I wish you died in that accident. Go away and never come back.”

I back away. She’s upset. Super upset and who wouldn’t be? If Dad grabbed my face and poured pills down my throat, I’d be crying in my room, too. But Dylan’s words feel personal—as if she’s angry at something I did. My vow to forget about the past is idiotic. I can’t move forward, not while everyone else’s reaction to me is based on their memories. I wish I could remember this. If I’m only allowed to recover one thing, let it be why my relationship with Dylan is so screwed up.

I drop my forehead against her door. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I don’t remember, but I’m sorry.”

She responds with silence, which is a thousand times worse than her insults.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’m sorry.” I slide down until my ass hits the floor. “I’m sorry.” I repeat the words on loop until my throat grows sore and my butt is numb. And still there’s no sound in return.

“Hartley, come away from your sister’s door,” Mom’s voice urges from above.

I twist around to see her climbing the stairs. She stops halfway up and motions for me to meet her. I shake my head because I don’t have the energy.

“Your sister has issues, don’t you remember?”

I shake my head. My last memories of Dylan are of her as a child—a moody one, but a child nonetheless. This young thirteen-year-old girl going on twenty-five is new to me.

“She gets in these moods because she doesn’t take her medication.” Mom twists her fingers. “And then your father gets angry.” She waves her hand in agitation. “It’s a vicious cycle. Don’t take it personally.”

I nod, welcoming the absolution even if I don’t deserve it.

“Come away from there now.” She waves again, this time for me to come to her.

I move slowly toward the stairs, sliding my butt down one step at a time like I did when I was a baby.

Mom presses money into my hand. “Take the car and go see your friends. There must be a place that you can hang out at for a while. Just until your father calms down.”

I don’t want to leave. I want to crawl into my bed and pull the covers way up over my head and sleep long enough for this nightmare to be over.

“Where would I go?” I ask hoarsely.

A flash of annoyance skips over her face. “Go and meet with your friends. It’s barely eight. They must be out doing things.”

“I don’t think—”

“Don’t think. Just go.”

And somehow that’s how I find myself sitting behind the wheel of my mom’s Acura staring at the lights at the intersection of West and 86th Street, not sure what direction to go. Not sure where I belong in this world. Not sure if I can take another day of this without completely falling apart.

Chapter 18

Easton

“Pash, you are the man,” I crow as I dump the contents of the paper bag I ripped out of his hands five seconds ago. “Was your girl too mad?”