Knee Pads

01 | footwork

          Well, shit.

          "Please don't tell Mom and Dad," he begged, voice cracking. I didn't know how to explain my scotch-coated clothes, or the splinters of glass woven into my hair to my parents. It wasn't one of my—our—proudest moments; it was, in fact, a whole new low. Until now, he had never gotten violent with anyone, especially not with me. "Please, Wren."

          I didn't know what to do. Even though I knew he needed me, there was only so much I could do. I wasn't a therapist, nor was I qualified to provide any actual help. Everything about Jordan's situation fled out of my control, and I hated it. Wasn't I supposed to always have the answer to everything? Wasn't I supposed to fix things?

          "I don't know, Jordan," I admitted, though it pained me greatly to do so. His face fell as he, too, expected me to know what to do or what to say. "I don't know what I'm going to do. You just threw a bottle at me."

          "I didn't mean—"

          "You just threw a bottle at me! I could have died, Jordan!"

          His jaw clenched and I instantly regretted opening my mouth to raise my voice. It wasn't something I did often, as I was used to having people listen to me even if I spoke quietly, but I had already thrown all carefulness away.

          What was the point?

          "So you're telling them," he dryly concluded.

          "I said I didn't know what I was going to do."

          "And you think it's a good idea to hold that against me? So I have to be in a constant state of anxiety and worry about what you might do?"

          I had to remind myself this wasn't him. I wanted to believe that so bad, with every fiber of strength in my being, but my knees were already buckling. My brain wanted me to run away, out of fear the next bottle would hit me, but I was growing roots in front of the kitchen sink.

          I was a goddamn coward.

          "I'm going to my room and clear my head," I muttered. "I need . . . I need to take a shower."

          He just nodded. I exited the kitchen, inhaled the smoke, and fled towards my bedroom, stomping my feet against the staircase. It felt like a thunderstorm, both thanks to the noise and to my paralyzing fear of thunder, combined with the incessant, stubborn pounding of my heart.

          In the safety of the four walls of my bedroom, I finally allowed myself to breathe. That didn't stop my hands from shaking, rendering me unable to hold on to something to keep my balance, and I eventually fell to my bed. My phone, resting next to my pillow, lit up with a notification.

          THEO, 4:11 PM: Wanna come over?

          I frowned.

          Out of every moment Theo could have used to text me, that was the worst one possible. Timing had never been our strong suit, so I supposed I shouldn't be that surprised, but I still barely found the courage and the energy to pick up the phone and reply.

ME, 4:12 PM: Probably not. It's not a good day.

          THEO, 4:12 PM: Do you want to talk about it?

          Theo had plenty of great qualities, and being a good listener was one of them. However, I wasn't sure whether it was the right thing to open up about family problems or not, as Jordan was pissed off enough as it was. Making things worse by getting Theo involved would not be a good idea.