All I Ever Knew Was Your Name [Nick Robinson]

EIGHTEEN

if you leave by orchestral manoeuvres in the dark

"You just moved here?" Greg asks, setting his glass of water down after taking a drink.

The entire dinner is dead silent. Not a word is said between any of us, and I can't help but wonder if it's always this way. Nick and his father acted as if it was normal.

"I've lived here my whole life," I say quietly.

"I've never seen you before," he comments.

"I guess I just don't like to make my presence known," I shrug.

Especially to scumbags like you.

"What do your parents do?"

My eye contact with him is at a deadlock. I'm not afraid of him. "Mom's a nurse. Dad's dead."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Did this happen recently, or—"

"He was shot in a parking lot when I was four."

His eyes widen. "So sorry. Your mother must be devastated."

"She's fine. Even though she's a single parent, she has a lot of healthy coping mechanisms to deal with his loss—"

"Mary," Nick warns.

I stop without even looking at him. Instead, his dad raises an eyebrow at me. He seems like a smart man. I'm sure he's connected the dots that I know what's going on with him and Nick. That, or he thinks I'm just some troubled youth.

"What about you, Mary?" he tests boldly. "How do you cope?"

Not by beating the shit out of a loved one, that's for sure.

I almost say it, but I can feel Nick staring daggers into me. I don't want to get him into anymore trouble, so I bite my tongue. "Reading," I say instead.

"Hm," he hums. "What kind of reading?"

"Anything to keep my mind occupied while the days pass," I murmur.

My eyes catch Nick's finally for the first time the entire dinner, and I can sense his sympathy. He knows I spend my days doing nothing, but lately, I've spent them worrying myself sick. I suppose that's my coping mechanism, Greg.

It's quiet again, and I feel Nick get up beside me to start cleaning up. I look up at him, using his movement as my own way to get away from Greg. He's making my skin crawl.

"Let me help you with that," I say softly, collecting my plate and his. I reach for his father's next, while Nick gathers the silverware. I follow Nick into the kitchen, giving us a little bit of privacy from his father for the first time in about an hour.

He begins running the sink water while I take one of the forks and begin scraping remnants into the garbage. I don't say a word, hopeful that he'll say something.

Instead, I only hear the soft clanking of dishes.

My heart beats quickly. I feel like if I make the slightest sound, Greg will come barreling through the doorway only to portray his dominance over his son right in front of me.

"Nick," I sigh, nearly whispering.

He immediately looks in my direction with wide eyes, pressing his index finger to his lips. "He's listening," he mouths. "Don't talk."

I nod, then continue to clean the kitchen in silence with Nick. I stand beside him, drying dishes as he washes them. We both work slowly, and I can tell it's because we want to prolong our time together. Even if that means we're stuck under his horrible father's hawk-like supervision.