Chapter 1
My split knuckles hover inchs from the door, suspended in the porch light like they’re waiting for someone else to decide. Did I break Dad’s jaw? The question won’t land. It just keeps circling in my head and making me sick.
Music thumps through the wood. Laughter spills out in bright bursts, careless and loud, like happiness is something you can afford to waste. The street is jammed with cars, bumpers nearly kissing, proof that everyone inside had somewhere safe to come from and somewhere safe to go back to.
I close my eyes and build a life I don’t have.
Me inside. Me normal. Dancing with a pretty girl who digs my accent. Her hand on my arm, warm and real. Maybe she laughs at my jokes. Maybe I ask for her number like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world, like my hands don’t ache and my ribs don’t feel bruised from breathing.
A smile starts to form, small and stupid and hopeful, and then my split lip burns and ruins it.
Copper floods my tongue. Reality always tastes like blood.
I lower my hand. The motion feels like surrender. I shouldn’t be here. Eleven hundred miles, two days on a bus, and I’m only figuring that out now, standing on a porch that looks like money and smells like somebody else’s safety.
Another laugh erupts from inside, loud and obnoxious, the kind of sound that doesn’t flinch when a door opens. I hate them for it.
My fingers knot in my hair. I want to punch something. I want to punch the sound right out of the air. I hate their happiness because it feels like a private joke and I’m the punchline. They probably have everything they ever wanted. They probably complain about things that don’t matter. Meanwhile, I’m out here in the cold, trying to talk myself into knocking on an overpriced door. Dad’s car probably cost less. Not that it says much.
I should leave. Before I do something I’ll regret. Before the thing under my skin boils over and turns me into the monster I never wanted to be.
Except it isn’t a monster.
It’s me.
It’s always me.
I take a step back, and the window catches my reflection. The glass warps me, blurs the edges, turns me into a smudge of a person, but the damage still shows. Porch light carves my bruises into sharp relief: swollen lip, black eye, skin gone pale and tight. I look like I crawled out of a bar fight I barely survived.
A bar fight would’ve been a decent lie, except sixteen year olds don’t belong in bars, but at least it would’ve sounded better than the truth.
The truth is worse.
My stomach lurches, and I swallow hard against the gag that climbs up my throat. I hate the thing staring back at me. I hate the way my face looks like a warning sign. It’s beaten and battered, and it wasn’t from my dad’s hands. It’s from the men who pulled me off of him.
The party swells behind the door, bright and clean and sickening. I can’t crash it. I can’t walk in and smear my mess across their polished floors.
But if I leave, then what?
A park bench. An unlocked car. A shadowed corner under an overpass where the wind can’t quite reach. Homeless. Maybe that’s what I deserve. Maybe the world is just finishing what Dad started.
Why can’t I knock?
Who decided Gavin deserves happiness more than I do?
He’s the one who left. He’s the one who never called, never checked, never cared. He vanished and took the idea of a brother with him.
Stuff him.
I lift my fist again. My knuckles tap the wood, so light the sound barely exists. My hand freezes before I can do it properly, before I can make it real. I can’t. The door doesn’t move. The music doesn’t stop. No one inside pauses and thinks, That might be him.
And I hate that I can’t.
The door stares back at me, a judge that already knows the verdict. My hand hovers there, useless. I start counting the reasons I have to knock, I have to see him again. Lists are always my way of coping.
One, I came eleven hundred miles.Two, there’s nowhere else to go.Three, if I turn around now, I’ll never stop running.
Then I flip it and count the reasons not to.
One, he left.Two, I’m a mess.Three, I don’t deserve second chances.
Mum’s voice slips through the noise in my head, soft and stubborn, the way she always sounded when she refused to let the world finish her off.
You still have your tomorrow.
I close my eyes and try to imagine one. A tomorrow where I knock and a door opens and I’m not alone. A tomorrow where my tongue doesn’t taste like blood. A tomorrow where I’m not the problem in every room I enter.
In this one, I breathe. I fail. I taste copper.
“Um... are you here for the party?”
The voice hits me so suddenly, my whole body jolts.
A girl stands on the porch steps, half turned like she’s been sent out to check on something and is already regretting it. Her eyes take in my face and go wide. Her hand flies to her mouth. Every instinct in her screams run.
I push my hood back so she can see I’m not hiding anything, which is almost funny since my face is doing all the talking anyway. “Relax. I’m not here to rob the place.” I say.
I shift along the porch and lean on the railing, giving her space on purpose. I know what I look like. I know what I sound like. I know how a battered face can make you look like the threat, even if you’re the one whose bleeding.
She tucks hair behind her ear, still wary but not bolting. Her gaze flicks from me to the door and back again, calculating, deciding what kind of problem I am.
“Okay,” she says carefully. “Who are you, and why are you here?”
Loaded question. How much truth do I hand over to a stranger?
“I’m here to see my brother.”
“Your brother?” She frowns. “Who’s your brother?”
“I’m not lying.” The words snap out too sharp, and I hear it the second they leave my mouth. Defensive. Cornered. The tone of someone who’s used to being accused.
She plants her hands on her hips. “I didn’t say you were lying.” She draws in a slow breath, closes her eyes for a second like she’s resetting herself, then opens them with a softer expression. “Let’s start over. You’re here to see your brother, right?”
“Right.” My voice still has teeth because I don’t know how to take them out.
“Okay. I might be able to help,” she says, cautious but trying. “If I knew who he was.”
Fair.
I roll my shoulders back and press my palms flat on the railing, grounding myself in the cold wood. “Gavin Navarro.”
Her face changes again, suspicion sharpening her features. “Gavin’s your brother?”
The reaction hits hard. It’s not like it should be that big of a shock, if she knows Gavin, he’s got the same Australian accent as me, so it shouldn’t have been rocket science to figure that one out.
“Is that so hard to believe?” I say, and the sarcasm comes up because it’s safer than panic. “It’s not like I’m an alien.”
Her gaze drops. She wets her lips. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I just didn’t...” She swallows, then forces a gentle smile that looks practiced, the kind of smile you wear when you’re trying to keep a night from going sideways. “Wait here. I’ll get him for you.”
“Wait,” I start, but the word is weak, drowned by the music and by the part of me that is tired of choices. She turns before I can find anything stronger, and I let her go.
Because what am I supposed to do? Run?
I stand there and pray Gavin will be the brother I remember, the one who used to defend me from bullies, to wrap me up and tell me life gets better than this, the one who used to say whatever it took to make me laugh, or step in front of Dad’s anger like a shield.
My heart starts hammering. My palms sweat. I wipe them on my jeans and immediately regret it because the bloodstain is still there, dark and ugly against the fabric.
Dad’s blood.
My throat heaves. I gag, swallow hard, and force the nausea back down where it belongs.
The door opens.
Gavin steps out into the porch light, and for half a second, my brain refuses to line him up with the boy I knew. Nothing about him feels familiar. He’s taller. Broader. He fills the doorway like he belongs there. A black suit fits him perfectly, sharp shoulders, clean lines. A purple bow tie sits at his throat like a little flag claiming a new identity. Even his eyes look different, like they’ve learned how to look away.
He studies me without speaking.
I force a smile even though it pulls at my split lip. “Blast from the past, huh?”
He doesn’t return it. His jaw shifts, brows knitting, his bottom jaw pushing forward into that old thinking face he always did.
Finally. Something familiar.
“Fight?” he asks.
“No,” I say, and the sarcasm flares because I can’t stand how small I feel. “I run into fists for fun.” I bite it back before it gets worse. Then I try to cover over the sting with a softer reply. “Yeah.”
“Dad?” he asks.
My brother, the one word conversationalist. It’s obvious communication is his strong suit.
“No. That’s not dad’s style.” I say. Well, not his fists, anyway.
“Then what happened?” He finally strings together an actual sentence. But that’s when it hits me. His voice sounds wrong. Softer. American. He traded our accent somewhere along the way, slipped into a new language like it was a jacket that fit better. I hate how much like Dad he sounds. I’ll never let go of my accent.
Too soon for the truth. “Fight at school. Dad flipped, so I took off.”
“You ran away? You... didn’t make arrangements?”
“Arrangements?” My voice jumps. Is he serious? Yeah, he is, but that’s because he’s a planner. Always has been, he probably planned his own escape from home years ago, and just never included me in on it. Heat spikes up my neck. I’m sixteen. I’m not booking hotels and calling taxis. I’m not a grown man with a plan. Also, I wasn’t exactly given the choice of sticking around. But I don’t want him to know dad threw me out. “No. Last minute decision.”
He looks at me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t know existed. “Does Mom know where you are?”
“Yeah. She gave me the bus money.” And you’re freaking address, because apparently you let her know where you’ve been all these years. I bite my tongue and hold back anger.
“And Dad?”
I know exactly what is hiding behind that question. He just wants to make sure Dad doesn’t land on his doorstep, too.
“Don’t worry, Mum never told him where you were. He won’t look for me here.” I say it like it’s solid. I say it like I believe it. I don’t say the real part, the part that burns. He won’t look for me at all.
Gavin exhales, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “You can stay tonight.”
Tonight.
A one night welcome. The kind you don’t unpack for, if I had any bags to unpack at all. The kind you don’t trust. It’s a motel key slid across a counter, not a home. That’s all he’s giving me one night?
I nod anyway. “Thanks.”
He holds the door open and motions for me to enter.
Inside, heat wraps around me. Bodies and money and perfume. Laughter bumps my shoulders and doesn’t apologize. People’s eyes are clinging to me like static. Whispers dance on the air at the strange, beat up kid walking through the elegant environment.
I drop my gaze to the floorboards, pretending that if I don’t meet anyone’s eyes, I won’t exist long enough to be judged. That trick worked in Texas sometimes. Here, the room feels smarter than me, like it already knows what I am and is deciding whether to spit me out.
The girl from the porch, the one with the skeptical glare, is waiting with a bright smile, the kind that belongs at a party and doesn’t get bruised by reality. Her hand shoots out. “I’m Nikki.”
I hesitate. Gavin flicks me a warning look I recognize too well. I force a painful smile and take her hand. “Ryan.”
Her grin widens. “It’s nice to have you with us.”
With us. Right. Packed house, polished furniture, laughter everywhere. I feel grimier just standing here.
Nikki guides me toward the kitchen. “Hungry?”
I passed hungry halfway through Texas and hit starving in New Mexico. “Sure,” I say, aiming for polite and landing on tired.
She piles food onto a plate. The kitchen is quieter, less crowded with whispers. I feel some relief with that.
“So you came all the way from Texas?” she asks.
The sarcasm jumps up before I can catch it. “What makes you think I’m from Texas, mate?” I work really hard to emphasize my Australian accent.
She blinks, startled. “Gavin...said that’s where his family lives.”
Gavin snatches the plate and shoves it into my hands, his tone sharp. “She was just being nice.”
I chew the edge of lip and feel the metallic bite of the split. “Sorry,” I mutter. “Bus took two days.”
“Two days?” Nikki’s smile returns, softer now. “That’s rough.”
I shove food into my mouth mostly to shut myself up, and then my eyes snag on a cake set up like a centerpiece. Three tiers. White icing. Purple flowers. Doves perched on top.
It’s a wedding cake.
Gavin places his hand on Nikki’s shoulder. Then I begin to notice what I haven’t been paying attention to. Gavins black suite, his purple bow tie. The purple flowers pinned up around the house. Nikki’s simple little white dress. The pieces stack in my head until they click into place with a sick little drop in my stomach.
“This is your wedding?” I say and can’t hide the shock.
He nods, hand tightening against Nikki’s shoulder.
Anger hits first, hot and stupid. No call. No invite. No warning that he had a whole life happening without me. Then guilt slams in behind it. This isn’t just a party. This is his day. I’m crashing it.
I decide my guilt trumps my anger.
“I’m sorry, Gav,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher. “I didn’t mean to ruin it.”
He finally smiles for the first time since I’ve arrived. “You’re not that talented.” He nudges my shoulder.
For one incredible moment, it feels like old times. For one heartbeat, I can almost pretend we’re brothers again.
“The guest room is upstairs. I can take you up if you like.” Nikki says.
I brave my way through the party guests again as I follow her upstairs.
The staircase wall, is lined with framed photos, but none of them are us. None of them are me. Nikki’s family. Nikki’s parents. Nikki’s brother. Gavin smiling beside Nikki. Gavin holding their dog. It’s a hallway of proof that he built a new life while I stayed behind in the wreckage.
At the top, one photo stops me cold. Gavin with a kid my age, faces painted, the kid’s in a football jersey, arms slung around each other, a trophy held between them. Pride glows in Gavin’s eyes, bright and effortless.
I don’t know the kid.
I hate him anyway.
He’s standing in the space that should’ve been mine.
“These should fit.” Gavin steps up behind me, a stack of folded clothes in his arms. “You could join the party if you like.”
I take them. “Thanks. I’m not in a party mood.”
My eyes drift to the photos again. “Nikki’s family looks nice.”
“Yeah.”
“Not like ours.”
He shrugs. “No. I guess not.”
“Right,” I mutter, turning toward the bathroom.
“Ry.” Gavin catches my sleeve.
It’s the first contact he’s made with me all night. Not a hug. Just a tug, cautious and small, like he’s afraid he might catch what I have.
“What?” My tone comes out sharp because sharp is easier.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t there.”
His voice is soft, raw at the edges, and something in my chest shifts and actually hurts.
I glance back and blink hard. “Me too.”
He lets go. “Get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning about what’s next.”
In the bathroom, I brace my hands on the counter and lean forward until my forehead presses against the cool mirror.
Gavin’s, ‘what’s next’ tears through me without mercy.
To Gavin, it probably means sending me back to Australia to live with our grandparents, or my aunt and uncle, or pretty much anyone who isn’t him. To me, it means staying here. With him. Not just one night. Not as a guest. As family.
I splash water on my face. Under the bright light, the bruises bloom darker, uglier. The truth is carved into my skin where no one can pretend not to see it.
Why did I come?
The memory I try to bury claws its way up anyway. Dad yelling when I broke Gavin’s model car, calling me stupid, telling Gavin to break one of my toys in return as my punishment. Gavin fighting with him, and Dad not backing down. Finally, Gavin grabbing another one of his models telling me it’s mine now, then smashing it, and his defiant look when he asked Dad if that’s what he wanted. He always did that, tried to shield me.
That was the brother I came for. The one who made me feel safe.
But what I got tonight was a careful welcome, a bow tie, and a question about what’s next.
I don’t know if we mean the same thing when we say next.
I breathe until the mirror fogs, and my reflection softens into something I can stand to look at, a ghost with a heartbeat, a boy trying to decide whether a second chance is something you can knock for, or something you have to steal.
