Pushing The Limits: Take Me On Part 4

"You can't." Ignoring the pressure of Kaden's hands, I press my feet hard against the concrete while swatting at my brother. He lets me go and Jax grabs my arm when I sway.

Jax leans into me as he holds me up. "What the f.u.c.k happened?"

My eyes flash open and Jax's shouted words echo in my head.

I've never been so relieved to see the roofing nails sticking through my uncle's roof. I suck in a breath to calm the rush of blood pounding my temples. I used to have this nightmare frequently after things ended between me and Matt this past summer and it figures I'd have it again after what happened last night. Especially since it was his younger brother who jumped me.

What sucks is it's not just a nightmare. It's the past reliving itself in my dreams.

I sit up and shiver against the cold air of the attic. No, it's not the cold air flowing from the cracked window causing the chill. It's the fact that life has become complicated. I gather my long hair at the base of my neck. Complicated. When is life going to be easy?

This past summer, I lied to Jax and Kaden. I told them that Matt and I got into a verbal argument and broke up and that after Matt left, someone I didn't see attacked me from behind. My family hates me now because of what I've done, but I'm lying to protect them. I've walked away from everything to protect them.

If I'd told Jax and Kaden the truth about what happened with Matt, they would have gone after him and then Matt and his friends would have retaliated. All of it on the streets. All of it in pure hatred. The fighting would never end.

And last night...I might have destroyed everything I've built in order to protect Jax and Kaden. I broke a rule. I got involved. I hit Matt's little brother and Matt will want payback.

Even though I miss Jax and Kaden, I made the right decision. I blow out a long breath. It is. It's the right decision and I've lived with this lie for too long to let Matt's brother ruin it.

My eyes fall to my shoes on the floor and I silently curse. If my uncle finds out that I wore shoes in the house, he'll throw a fit.

s.n.a.t.c.hing them up, I tiptoe down the wooden stairs in my socks. Twice the material snags on an exposed nail. At the bottom, I relish the fact that I descended without a loud groan betraying my existence.

I pause, then strain to hear the light breathing of the nine other people sleeping in the house. Straight in front of me is the bathroom. To the right of the bathroom, my uncle's loud snores can be heard past the shut wooden door, and in the room to the left of the bathroom, my sister strangles her American Girl doll as she rolls over on the floor in her sleep. With her eyes still closed, my mother reaches down and touches Maggie's head full of tight brown curls.

I take an immediate right and carefully maneuver over Jax, whose bed has become the carpet of the living room. Kaden's long arms and legs fall off the couch. Even before we moved here, the living room was Jax's home. My parents displaced his younger brothers by taking over their room. The Dictator banished them to sleep in the unfinished bas.e.m.e.nt. I offered to let them have the attic. Jax threatened to kick the c.r.a.p out of them if they accepted.

In painfully slow movements, I leave my shoes near the front door. I'm a.s.suming Jax and Kaden's lie accounted for my missing shoes, but just in case...

The light glowing at the back of the house catches me off guard and I weave through blankets, pillows, T-shirts, socks, arms and legs to gain access to the lime-green kitchen that's large enough for a stove, fridge, sink and a few cabinets. What doesn't fit is the large oval table that seats ten people. It consumes the entire kitchen, and, even with the mismatched wooden seats and folding metal chairs pushed in, it's difficult to walk around.

I'm hesitant as I poke my head in, then I smile.

Dad: dishwater-blond hair, tall like Kaden. He sits at the end of the table, reading the paper while jotting something into a notebook. The joy bubbling inside me is like running downstairs on Christmas morning. I can't remember the last time I spent time with him alone.

"Hi." I lean against the doorframe, nervous to enter. Sticking with what Jax originally a.s.sumed, I told my parents that I was late for curfew, ran home and Dad's medicine rolled out of the bag without my realizing it. Regardless of how it happened, I lost his medication. Am I welcome anymore?

His eyes shine as he lifts his head. "Haley-what are you doing up?"

"Just up." We speak barely above a whisper. It's rare when this house is quiet; rarer are the moments when anyone can find peace. "How about you?"

The dark circles under his eyes indicate he's battling insomnia again. Mom said his mind races with everything that's happened, trying to figure out where it went wrong or scrambling to discover a way to fix it. "Same as you. Just up."

"What are you doing?" I ask.

Dad motions at the paper. "Job hunting."

I nod, not sure what to say. Talking to Dad used to be easy. Very easy.

Back when he was younger, he used to train with my grandfather. It's how Mom and Dad met. It's all very romantic and love-storyish, and I adore every second of the gooey-eyed tale. He was a kickboxer, like me, and swept Mom, the trainer's daughter, off her feet.

Dad practically raised Kaden and me in the gym. Kaden fell in love with boxing, then wrestling, then mixed martial arts. Me? I stuck with kickboxing and Dad admired that and me until I left my grandfather's gym. Then he lost more respect for me when I gave it up altogether.

I bite the inside of my lip and slip into the kitchen, focusing on the scratched brown linoleum floor as I progress toward my father. "Any luck?"

He shakes his head and closes the paper. "Most everything is online now."

I drop into the chair next to his and hug my knees to my chest. "Library then?" My uncle doesn't believe in internet access.

"Yep." Dad taps a beat onto the table. Eventually it loses the rhythm and spirals into a persistent drone. Is conversation with me painful for him or is it conversation in general?

"Kaden's got a fight in three months," I say. "He's going pro."

My brother will stare holes through me for a week because I told Dad this. I wasn't supposed to know. I overheard him and Jax discussing it on the bus. For some reason, he wanted to keep it private, but I'm desperate to end the silence. "Odds are he'll end up fighting one of the guys from Black Fire and you know they dominate in a stand-up fight." But Kaden is a force of nature on the mat.

"He's going to start fighting for money?"

"Yeah." It would have been better if Kaden could have fought amateur for a few more years, gained some experience, but with money tight the lure of a prize is too strong.

Unable to stay still, Dad rolls the pencil on the table under his palm and never glances at me. "In other words, he'll be fighting Matt?"

I flush-everywhere. Heat rises off my cheeks and the back of my neck. Will I ever be forgiven? By anybody? "Maybe. If Matt's gone pro."

"We both know he did the moment he turned eighteen."

He's probably right, so I say nothing.

"It's too bad you taught him how to defeat Kaden."

A knot forms in my windpipe and I pick at a hole in my jeans right above the knee, ripping it wider. "I know." I'm well aware of the rotten choices I made. I clear my throat and try again. "I was thinking maybe you could help Kaden train."

I was thinking Dad could get out of this house. I read once that exercising causes a rush of endorphins. Maybe if he did something he enjoyed, something he was good at, he'd get better.

"I'm sure your grandfather has that covered." Dad manages a half smile when he looks at me. "What about you? Have you thought about going back?"

I have that heavy sinking sensation as I shake my head-the type that feels like cold maple syrup running from my heart to my intestines. Would it make him happy if I did return? I've dug my grave so deep at the gym it may be impossible to go back even if I wanted to.

The refrigerator kicks on, a loud hum signifying something is on the verge of breaking.

"Your mom talked to her great-aunt in California. She's offered to let us live with her."

I raise an eyebrow. "She lives in a retirement community. As in no one over sixty-five."

"She's gotten permission to let us stay."

I a.s.sess the kitchen. This house is the dirty dark secret of h.e.l.l on earth, but the thought of leaving Kentucky cuts my soul. Leaving the state means we've given up hope and it wasn't until this very moment that I realize I've held on to a shred. No matter how battered and bruised the shred is, it's still faintly alive, praying that Dad will land a job and take us home. "Are we leaving?"

"We're going to try to hold on until you and Kaden graduate. We'll go if things haven't improved by then."

"You'll find something. I know you will."

"How's the college search going?" Dad rushes out.

I freeze, unsure how to respond. I've kept the rejection private, though I crave to tell Dad. Once upon a time, he would have been the first person I approached with any problem because he always had the right words. He'd place an arm around my shoulder, kiss my temple and tell me, "Bad luck, kid. We'll get 'em next time."

The hurt inside, knowing I've let him down with the gym and kickboxing and now college, it's like being gutted open by a serrated blade. "The college search is going great."

"Do you have any scholarship leads?"

No. "Yeah. Plenty."

"Good." A pause. "Good. At least Kaden has the gym." His voice cracks as his skin fades into the color of ash. The expression is off when all my memories of him are of a courageous fighter. I've watched my dad battle in the ring against opponents who were stronger than him and win. How did he become this broken?

Dread causes my hands to jerk because I itch to stick them over my eyes. It's awful to watch his undoing, knowing I'm partly responsible. If I had gotten the meds, he wouldn't obsess over his mistakes and he could start sleeping at night.

"Kaden will continue on at the gym, but I thought I'd have something to offer you for college. I had some money tucked away, not a lot, but enough to help, but then we needed it for the mortgage..."

A strange noise leaves Dad's throat as he slides his chair back. "Library."

Though it's not open for a few more hours. Dad squeezes between the wall and the table and as he's on the verge of leaving the kitchen, I open my mouth. "Daddy..."

My father presses a hand against the doorframe, his knuckles shifting as he tightens his grip. I haven't called him that in years. He peers at me from over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

"I know, Hays. I know."

West The intensive care unit of the hospital has that slasher-movie quiet to it. That moment right before the psycho jumps out from behind a counter and hacks the people to bits. From the family waiting room, I can hear the occasional monitor beeping, the rustle of paper and the low murmur of conversation between the nurses. I loathe this place. It's cold, sterile, smells of rubbing alcohol and is filled with death.

Rachel shouldn't be here. This place is the opposite of her. Unable to sit anymore, I jerk out of my seat. The guy on the other side of the room tugs his head up to look at me. We stare at each other. His wife is dying. I overheard him tell someone a few minutes ago.

Dying.

As I said, Rachel doesn't belong here.

I glance away and walk to the windows. My jaw hurts. The knuckles on both my hands are scratched to h.e.l.l and throb like a b.i.t.c.h. I drove here hours ago. Abby visited Rachel and left. I texted Dad and told him I was here.

Silence-from my entire family. From my way older brothers, Jack and Gavin, to Rachel's twin, Ethan, to Mom and Dad. They want me to visit Rachel, but I can't. Not with her here, not with her surrounded by people who are dying.

I failed her. My heart pounds hard and the sharp ache creates an edginess. I shut my eyes, wishing I could leave.

"West."

I turn to the sound of my mother's voice. Tears have dug grooves into her makeup and her black mascara smudges in clumps near her eyes.

Nausea slams into my gut. "Is it Rachel?"

"We talked to the hospital's specialist. The damage to her legs is severe and-" Mom chokes on her words, then clamps a hand over her mouth. She exhales and regains composure. "It was unexpected news."

I harden into a statue, yet her words sink in past my shock. More surgeries. More time in the hospital. "Is she going to walk again?"

"I don't know."

I rub my eyes to readjust my equilibrium. This is my fault. If I had found another way to handle things, Rachel wouldn't be in this hospital. She wouldn't be fighting for her life.

Mom's heels click across the wooden floor toward me. When she raises her hand, I tilt my head away. I don't deserve Mom's forgiveness or her comfort. Persistent, Mom gently lays her hand on my jaw and moves her thumb as if her touch could erase the bruises. "Why do you do this to yourself? Why must you always fight?"

"I don't know." I step back, forcing her to drop her hand.

Mom puts distance between us and pours herself a cup of coffee. "Have you visited with Rachel?"

"No." A sweep of the room confirms the guy with the dying wife vacated. No wonder Mom's being open about family business.

A gruff clearing of a throat draws our attention to the doorway. Dad stretches to his full six feet and sets his p.i.s.sed-off dark eyes on me.

"Miriam." He softens his tone when he addresses Mom. "The nurses need you."

Mom nods, and as she hurries out, Dad gently wraps his fingers around her wrist. She lifts her gaze to his and he bends down to kiss her lips. They do this. My parents love each other. Dad worships her, and it's why he's a control freak with us. If everything isn't about business, it's about Mom's happiness.

When Dad releases her, she leaves. Not once peeking in my direction.

I stand taller when Dad enters, as if preparing for a physical fight. We've yet to come to blows during an argument, but the fire in his eyes says that day will happen. Sooner now than later, and I hate it. When I was a kid, Dad and I used to be close.

"You didn't come here last night like I asked."

I stay silent. The truth won't help my case. I've been in detention more than any kid at my school and have been suspended more days than we've had off. Dad, in his own way, takes my s.h.i.t, but he made it clear months ago that he'd be done with me at expulsion.

"Did you go home or did you pa.s.s out at a party?" he asks.

"Does it matter?" I've seen that expression before. He's already made up his mind on me.

"No," he answers. "They've expelled you."

I utter something I've never said to him. "I'm sorry." I am. For Rachel. For the fight at school. For making this horrible situation more complicated.

His face remains emotionless. "I don't care."

I blink and my shoulders fall a half inch. "I mean it. I'm sorry. I'll apologize to the princ.i.p.al, to the guy I hurt, his family, whatever. I screwed up this time."

He points at me. "d.a.m.n right you screwed up. But not just this time. This is one of many mistakes, and I'm done with it. I told you months ago that I drew the line at expulsion. All you had to do was stay out of fights and stay out of trouble until you graduate and you couldn't even do that. What's worse is that you chose to cross this line with your sister in the hospital. What is this? A cry for attention? You don't think that your mother has enough to deal with?"

"Fine. Tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it."

"Your sister is in agony and from what I understand you had a hand in this nightmare."

My eyes snap to his. "I tried to keep her from Isaiah." That's where I failed, and I don't care for the reminder.

"You never bothered telling me she was seeing him in the first place! I'm her father, not you. I'm the one who makes those decisions."