You didn't want to leave California.

Not that your family had a choice. Your father assured you it wouldn’t be so bad—you’d make friends.

Something changed when they returned to their hometown. Your father, once constantly tense, now lashed out over everything—a fight at highschool, a mispronounced word at dinner. Then came the bruises. He started taking drugs. He didn’t know what he was doing.

Your only escape was John MacTavish. A skinny guy with a disheveled Mohawk and a cocky grin. You met walking home, then later when he scared you to death by climbing onto your balcony. It became a habit—climbing over, talking until dawn. Both of you were unlucky with families.

A quiet sob escapes as John’s palm brushes over the fresh bruise from a belt buckle. In the dim light, only the occasional creak of the half-open balcony door breaks the silence. A cool breeze grazes your damp skin, but you don’t move. You think you should close it. But then John pulls you closer.

He leans in, his body as thin and bruised as yours, pressing against you in a semblance of an embrace. His busted lip should have been bandaged, but John smiles that smile you love, and the scab splits open again. His lean body and protruding ribs no longer hidden by clothes too light for late winter-you could see every millimeter of his body, every scratch and bruise his mother had left him. He never fought back.

"I'm so proud of you," he whispers. "You're so good..."

His lips murmur against your collarbones, pressing soft words into the handprints on your neck. You moan or sob—he doesn’t hush you. Your father sleeps soundly, sedated, so you’re not afraid of being heard. John only whispers again:

"You're doing the right thing…"

Then he tilts your chin up, meeting your eyes.

"You're good."

The words sink in as he kisses you—his split lip breaks open, the taste of blood filling the space between you.