Dad stumbles back. “I was trying to take care of you the only way I knew how!”

“Wow.” I toss up my hands. “Good job. When all your son wanted was time. Not money. Fantastic job. I hope you enjoy your expensive whiskey and lonely office.” I sneer. “I’m done here.”

For once, he doesn’t yell at me to stay or demand I apologize.

So I walk off and stomp my way up the stairs directly into Mary-Belle’s room. She’s sitting in her bed, staring down at her hands, breathing slowly like she’s trying to calm herself. Hands shaking, she slowly looks up, tears streaming down her face.

I rush to her, jump onto her bed, and then pull her into my arms. She rests her cheek against my chest. “You should go.”

“Not going anywhere, sorry.” I rasp back.

“No, really.” She looks up at me. “Your dad was right.”

“He was wrong.” She shivers next to me. “Besides, what’s the worst that can happen at this point? He finds us cuddling. You know he slapped me? I’m so pissed at him, so fucking pissed—“

“—go find him, talk it out. You at least have a dad, Ambrose. I don’t condone hitting your kid, obviously, but he loves you.”

I roll my eyes. “Perfect, now you too?”

“I’m serious.” She grips me by the shoulders. “Go back downstairs and make it right.”

“You know I came in here to comfort you, and now you want me to leave?”

“Ambrose, I just think—“

“—you’re all the same! All of you! Everyone trying to think for me, decide for me, tell me what to do. I’m so over it!” I jump out of the bed, knowing I probably messed up again but so pissed and exhausted that I grab one of my team sweatshirts, run down the stairs, grab my tennis shoes, and go for a nearly four am run.

I blame them.

Both of them.

Why can’t I just live my life?

Why does everything have to be so complicated?

I’d left my phone in my room, so I don’t go far. About twenty minutes later, after laps around the neighborhood a mile over. I run back.

Only to find an ambulance and cop cars at the house.

What the hell?

Panic washes over me as I run up, all sweaty. “What’s going on?”

“Sir, this is a private matter we’re going to—“ It’s like the cop suddenly realizes who I am. “I think it’s best to talk with your mom.”

“Is she okay?” Oh God, what if my mom fell? Got in an accident? She hasn’t been feeling well lately.

I run my hands through my hair just as Mary-Belle comes out of the house covered in a blanket, her eyes haunted.

“Mary-Belle!” I yell her name, but it’s like she doesn’t see me as she stumbles to the ground and sits. “Mary-Belle.”

“I tried,” she whispers. “I tried to fix it.”

“Fix what?” I’m wrapping the blanket tighter around her when my mom walks up to me, tears streaming down her face. “Fix what?”