Lay Me Down

27. Bedtime prayer.

{Cary}

The street lamps blinked on one by one as he biked up the street to the Whites'—it was later than he'd thought. Cary rode up over the back lawn and swung off Jon's bike, checking the windows of the house. All the bedroom lights were out, but the light above the back door was burning steadily. He opened it, catching the screen with his hand so it wouldn't bang shut behind him.

The kitchen was dark, but it wasn't empty: Jon's dad was a bowed shape at the table, facing the hall. Cary held his breath, waiting for Pete to turn around and say something. When Pete didn't turn, he thought he must have fallen asleep, so he pulled off his shoes to go past in sock feet.

Pete's fist was closed on the table, and his forehead was resting on it. His other hand was open and out like he was asking for change on a street corner. Cary paused beside the table, looking at Pete's open hand. He turned his own palm over and laid it next to Pete's. Pete's hand was bigger, calloused and strong. Cary curled his fingers in just the shape Pete's were making, holding his breath so he wouldn't make a sound. In the dim light, you couldn't see his scars—just the shape of his hand, open there.

He folded his fingers again and went to brush his teeth for bed.

When he came out of the bathroom, Pete was standing in the hall like he'd been waiting. Cary got out of the way so Pete could go in.

"Cary." Pete's voice stopped him on the way to his room. "Are you all right?"

Cary turned, checking Pete's face. It occurred to him for the first time that Pete might have been waiting for him. All the times he'd run away, his father had never been waiting up when he came home—Conall had rarely even noticed he was gone. He couldn't guess what Pete wanted him to say. If he wasn't all right, was he in less trouble? If he was all right, would Pete feel better and go to bed?

"I didn't think it was so late—sorry, Mr. White." The words came out flat, bouncing against the walls in the hall.

"I was afraid you weren't coming back." Pete's face still looked crumpled around the edges like he'd been crying or had just woken up. Cary was having trouble matching this face to the one he saw in the daytime—the face of a grown-up man, powerful and competent like his father. "Where did you go?"

"The ravine. I should have ... I'm sorry I didn't tell you where I was going. I just ..." The things Jon had said to him just before he'd torn out of the house made his nose sting. He smoothed a hand over his aching stomach, hiding his face. "I just wanted a bike ride."

"Show me your arms," Pete said softly.

Cary held still a moment, the skin on his chest prickling around the cuts. He stepped forward and held his fists out, then turned his arms over and opened his hands so Pete could see there was nothing there. Nothing new, anyway. He took a breath to say the thing Pete needed to hear. "I'm okay, Mr. White." It was almost true. At least his skin was staying in one piece for the night. "I didn't think you would be waiting up—I'm sorry."

Pete let out his breath and drew himself up, smiling at Cary. "Thank you for apologizing. I trust you'll remember you have a parent worrying at home the next time you have an urge to head out alone."

Cary met Pete's eyes, and something froze inside him. In the light of the hallway, it was plain that something was not okay with Pete. When his mom looked like this, he knew not to ask, not to check her arms for bruises, and not to wonder why she winced and got him to reach to the top shelf in the cupboard instead. He didn't think taking off like he had explained why Pete looked like he was breaking under that smile.

Cary looked away, ducking his head in a nod. "I will." He went into his room and closed his door, then stood there, seeing that look on Pete's face. He couldn't cross the hall and knock on Jon's door to ask him what the hell was going on. "Shit," he said softly.