What You're Not | ✔

41. Sleep Over (2)

"Get in the car, Loren." His voice was tight, annoyed, probably because he had to repeat himself for a third time.

I didn't want to get into the car with him. He was drunk. That was made clear by his slurred speech and bloodshot eyes. Not that I was doing any better. The fight with Jerrell had sobered me up, but not by much.

That wasn't the first time he had driven drunk. He'd pick me up from dance practice smelling of beer all the time. That was one of the occupational hazards of working at a bar, but he'd been out of work for months.

Mom never knew he'd driven me—or himself—around under the influence of course. He'd swear me to secrecy as we pulled into the driveway, taking one last hit of the cigarette he smoked to mask the smell of alcohol. And I never told her because it'd only lead to a fight. I was so sick of them fighting.

The car jerked to a stop beside me. He was done playing games.

"Get your ass in the car," he bellowed. "I'm tired of repeating myself."

He wasn't into physical discipline—that was Mom's territory—but so much of his personality had changed that I wouldn't be surprised if that did too.

To make things easier on myself I got into the car, regretting it the moment I shut the door. He went on a tirade about my recent behavior. My behavior? How would he know anything about my behavior when he was too busy trying to find the prize at the bottom of the beer can?

I knew that it wasn't his fault that he fell and hit his head, damaging the part of his brain that made him my dad, but is frustrating.

I knew that the rage and the outbursts were due to injury. I couldn't keep giving him passes like Mom, though. Having to tip toe around him was getting tiresome. No more biting my tongue.

If he wanted to talk about behaviors we'd talk about his.

Before I got a chance to speak, something caught my eye. A figure stood in a distance in front of the moving vehicle. The red and gold letterman jacket tipped me off on who it was. Miles.

I tried to yell, but nothing came out. Dad kept driving and Miles just stood there.

Why wasn't he moving?

Why couldn't I say anything?

The car was getting too close with no intention of slowing down. The only thing I could do was squeeze my eyes shut and brace for the impact.

Then Miles called out my name. My eyes opened. Miles's eyes were wide and full of concern as he stared down at me.

I was awake. My heart pounded in my ears as I laid in a puddle of my own sweat. Miles hovering over me only added to my anxiety. I didn't want him to see me like that.

"What happened?"

"I'm fine," I said, replying to a question he hadn't asked. Then, before he could say anything else, I jumped out of bed and ran for the bathroom.

Once I was behind the closed door I sat on the edge of the bathtub and tried to steady my breathing, my hands, everything. Every inch of me felt like it was vibrating.

My sobs weren't so silent in the eerily quiet bathroom, so I turned on the shower to drown them out. I didn't want to hear them and I definitely didn't want Miles to.

I'd had nightmares about the crash plenty of times. They were always the same, exactly how I recalled the actual accident happening. That was the first time the dream had changed.

Why was Miles there? I didn't want him associated with the accident. How was I supposed to face him without picturing him standing, happily, in front of a moving car?