Free Fighting Silence by Aly Martinez Page A

continued. “But then it became a place where I wasn’t bound by my life outside. Inside the four walls of that shitty apartment, I got to be whoever I wanted. I wasn’t poor or going deaf. Social services weren’t beating down our door, nor were the cops looking for my dad. I was always met with a smile and a sense of belonging. It was you. We had an entirely separate life there. Together, we kept it clean. I made sure we always had power and you made sure I didn’t starve. That was a hell of a lot more than I got at home. You took care of me, and with what little I had, I took care of you.”
    I was still mad as hell, but he was speaking the language of longing and acceptance I understood, and that’s the only reason I nuzzled my head against him.
    “So, Doodle. I fucked up that last night together. I took the risk and merged fantasy into reality.”
    My body immediately stiffened, but I was unsure which term had hurt more. Who I wanted to be to Till was still a mystery even to me.
    With a slide of his hand over my throat, he guided my eyes to find his. “So I decided to walk away from you before you could walk away from me when you realized what a fuckup I was in the real world.” His lips lingered close to mine, but it wasn’t the good kind. It was the torturous kind.
    If I were given the choice with Till, I’d take real life every. Single. Time.
    “I am well aware what a fuckup you are,” I said, and I felt him flinch. “Did you ever think that maybe I felt the same way about you? My parents couldn’t have given two shits about me, but I knew you did. I knew you would always be there. You might be late, you might smell like Rochelle Lane’s cheap-ass perfume, you might be in a shitty mood, but you would be there. Then, one day, you weren’t. I sat in that apartment night after night for two months. Most of the time, I just stared at the window, willing it to suddenly open.”
    “Jesus. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know where else to go tonight. I needed the fantasy back.”
    “Well, I don’t,” I said, and he began to roll away. “Stop. Just listen to me. I’ve put my life back together the last few months. I’ve moved on in the real world. I don’t want to go back to the fantasy. Not even to be with you.” I felt his shoulders fall. “But if you want to join me here, I’m okay with that.”
    “I don’t even know where to start being there with you.” He sucked in a breath, releasing it on a vibrato.
    “Start by telling me whose blood you were wearing tonight. I don’t need details, but you have to let me know if I have to testify that you were with me all night. I’m a terrible liar.” I raked my nails down his back.
    “Some guy named Frankie,” he answered weakly.
    Our bodies were tangled together. As I stiffened, he became pliable, wrapping around me. Yin and yang. I took the strength he feebly offered. And he held me tight enough to transfer it through mere contact.
    “Is he dead?” I finally found the words, but I’d never wanted an answer less.
    “No. But my father might be.”
    “Oh, God.” A sob caught in my throat.
    “Don’t waste one fucking tear on that asshole. I tried to protect him, but he turned on me. He threw me to the fucking wolves!” he exclaimed without ever raising his voice.
    His eyes were filled with rage, but it was more than that. He was hurt . . . and disappointed . . . and abandoned. I was devastated just watching the myriad of emotions pass over his strong face.
    “You really think he’s dead?”
    “Unfortunately, no. He’s probably still breathing. But he’s dead to me all the same.”
    I eyed him warily, unsure how to react to this news. It was obvious he didn’t want to talk about it. But here was always one thing that worked for us. Humor.
    “Okay. If the cops come calling, you were with me all night. I haven’t left this apartment since noon. You came in the window soon after. We ate leftover spaghetti then watched Dancing With the