Page 148 of The Design of Goodbye
* * *
When Liam woke up, I lied to him again.
I told him my dad had made us breakfast. With the promise of food, it’d been easy to convince Liam to go upstairs. He had no idea my dad was waiting to talk and had been for over three hours.
I tried not to feel guilty, but it was impossible. I’d lied to him. I’d betrayed him.
He wasnevergoing to forgive me.
“Morning, kids,” greeted my dad once we walked into the kitchen. “Want some coffee?”
I didn’t.
My stomach was in knots. The thought of coffee made me sick. But Liam would suspect something if I said no, so I nodded.
My dad got our coffees and then joined us at the kitchen table. He frowned as he took in the cut on Liam’s cheek and his wrapped wrist.
“So, Liam,” started my dad, “I think we need to talk.”
“Uh, okay.” Liam turned to me, looking for answers. But when he saw my expression, his walls went up. “About what?”
“I told him, Liam,” I said.
His face lost all color; his breath quickened.
“Told him what?” he asked anyway. Hopeful.
“About your dad.” My eyes pleaded with him to understand. “I told him everything.”
“You promised,” he whispered. His shoulders fell as the reality of what I’d admitted sank in. I’d been prepared for anger. For him to run. I hadn’t prepared for his immediate defeat.
“I know,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
He didn’t sayI forgive you, like he always did. I hadn’t expected him to. I could only hope, one day, he would.
“I can help you,” said my dad.
Liam shook his head. “I don’t want your help.”
“You may not want help,” said my dad. “But you need it.”
“I don’t,” Liam said calmly and with control. “Whatever Madison told you, it’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad?” My sudden anger spilled out in a cascade of words. “Your dad starves you.” I pointed to a bruise on his neck I’d noticed this morning. “He hits you. Locks you in your room. He—”
Liam shot up from the table, and coffee spilled over the rims of our cups.
Just as he made it to my front door, I ran over to him, scared he might actually leave, even without shoes or a jacket. “Where are you going?”
His brow furrowed as he stared at his hand gripping the doorknob. “I’m going...”
I heard it in the silence, the word he wished he could say but never had.
Home.
“I don’t know,” he finished.
He had two places he could go. Here, with walls of honesty. Or his house, with walls of cruelty.
