I kneel beside her, reaching out to touch her shoulder, to bring her back to reality. The moment my fingers graze her skin, she flinches, her body recoiling like I'm the monster. Like I'm him.

"It's okay, Mom. It's me. Nate," I say softly, each word splintering my heart. "I'm not going to hurt you."

But she's lost in her own personal hell, eyes wide and terrified, seeing past me into something I can't protect her from.

"This is never going to stop is it?" I whisper, though we both know the answer.

My throat constricts as her eyes dart around, checking if he's still here, her body trembling uncontrollably.

I was supposed to leave for college. Get out of this fucking hell I'd been living in. Play football. Build a life beyond the suffocating mess my father created. I had a way out, a future. But how can I walk away knowing he'll come back, again and again, until one day he takes it too far?

"I'm not leaving," I say, the decision settling in my chest like lead. "I'm not going to college. I'm staying here.”

Her head snaps up, panic flashing in her eyes as my words finally register. "No, Nate. No, you're not doing this." Her voice cracks, raw and broken. "You have to get out of here. I want that for you. Please..."

But it's too late. The choice is made. I can't leave Jake to fend for himself when he comes back next week. I can't leave her at Scott’s mercy.

"I can't leave you like this. Look what happens when I'm not around. This, Mom. This."

She grabs my hand, her grip weak but desperate. "Nate, you're supposed to make something of yourself. Don't throw that away for me. Please, baby." Tears cut tracks through her mascara, but I'm already lost to the decision I can't take back.

I'm angry.

So fucking angry.

The emotion burns through me, directed at him for being the piece of shit he is, at her for staying and forcing my hand. The anger subsides into guilt when I see the fear in her eyes. I still don't understand why she puts up with this, why she won't save herself.

The next day at school, reality settles in.

Scott would never allow his son to be a dropout or not attend an Ivy League College. He might be a deadbeat, but he's still proud, in his twisted way. He has an image to maintain.

So I'll find another way.

By lunchtime, my mind's made up. I text Aaron, known for dealing more than just party drugs behind the bleachers. We've never spoken, but I've watched how he operates—he's got what I need.

The meeting happens after school, behind the gym. Aaron leans against his car, wearing a knowing smirk.