“It’s my car,” she said. “Yours is in the shop, remember?” She refused to let go.

“It’s not like I got a flat on purpose. The tires were old, and it’s not my fault they couldn’t get the tire off and had to tow it.”

“It’s never your fault, right?” she said bitterly. “Nothing’s ever your fault.”

Elise glanced at me. I was flooded with shame. Again. I should’ve made an excuse and told her she couldn’t come. She reached for my hand and squeezed. Eventually, Dad relented and got into the passenger side, shutting the door with enough force to shake the whole car.

In the back, I sat between Christian and Elise, holding her hand the whole ride back. Our eyes locked in the dark, neither of us letting go.

• • •

Back at the house, Elise and I went down to the basement but we could still hear them above us, loud words and heavy pacing.

“It’s late,” I told her. “You should go.” I didn’t want to be alone but I didn’t want her to witness more than she already had.

She shook her head. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” I said with a weak smile, and she gave me a look like she didn’t believe me.

“My dad’s home tonight,” she said, and I understood what she meant. He was there, so we couldn’t be, for reasons still unknown to me. I wished she’d just tell me, but despite seeing how messed up my family was, she still seemed to hold back.

We sat on the floor with our backs against the couch. I took out Elise’s lighter, my birthday present, and ran my fingers over the inscription before flipping the heavy top open and closed like I’d seen her do.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Mom said upstairs.

“My problem?” Dad said. “Don’t you know already? It’s you.”

“I asked you for one thing and you couldn’t do it. You knew this was important to me, you knew, but you didn’t care.”

“I had a flat tire!”

“That doesn’t explain where you were all day,” she snapped.

“I want a divorce.”

The house fell silent.

“Remy—” Elise whispered.

“Shh,” I said, leaning toward the staircase, just straining to hear. This wasn’t the first time, or the second, that I’d heard those words from him. It was terrifying each time—an end to the madness but an unknown future.

Mom finally broke the silence. “What?”

“I want a divorce,” he repeated, keeping his voice in check.

She didn’t say anything for a long time. And then she just laughed.

He lost it. “I said, I want a divorce!”

“It’s late,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”

“Did you hear me?” he called out after her.

“Good night, Stephen,” she said, and I could picture her walking away from him, flicking a dismissive hand in his direction.

“I’m serious this time. I’ve called a lawyer.”

Her footsteps stopped. “Oh, really?” I could just see the expression on her face, the arched eyebrow—a challenge.