A WEEK LATER, something startles me awake. I sit up. My head is foggy with sleep but my heart is awake and racing. It knows something that my head doesn’t yet know.
I glance at the clock. 3:01 A.M. My curtains are closed, but I can see a glow from Olly’s room. I drag myself over to the window and push aside the curtains. His entire house is ablaze with lights. Even the porch light is on. My hearts speeds up even more.
Oh, no. Are they fighting again?
A door slams. The sound is faint but unmistakable. I gather the curtains in my fist and wait, willing Olly to show himself. I don’t wait for long because just then he stumbles onto the porch as if he’s been pushed.
The urge to go to him fills me up like it did the last time. I want to go to him. I need to go to him, to comfort him, to protect him.
He regains his balance with his usual speed and spins to face the door with fists clenched. I brace along with him for an attack that doesn’t come. He remains in fighter stance, facing the door, for a full minute. I’ve never seen him so still.
Another minute passes and then his mom joins him on the porch. She tries to touch his arm but he jerks away and doesn’t even look at her. Eventually she gives up. As soon as she’s gone, all the tension leaves his body. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and his shoulders begin to shake. He looks up to my window. I wave, but he doesn’t respond. I realize he can’t see me because my lights are off. I run to the switch. But by the time I return to the window, he’s gone.
I press my forehead, my palms, my forearms against the glass.
I’ve never wanted out of my skin more.