70

“You’re always like this,” Liana spat, her voice cracking as she kicked the peeling leg of her desk. The sound echoed in the cramped bedroom, where posters of indie bands and half-finished sketches littered every surface. “You show up when it’s convenient, say sorry, then disappear again. What’s the point?”

Leo set his hands on the doorframe, the wood grating against his palms. Rain blurred the city lights behind him, smearing them into liquid streaks. "I'm here now," he said, softer than he'd intended.

"For what? To make it right? You can't make this right." She rummaged in her backpack and tossed a crumpled-up math test at him—a 56 in red. It fell to the ground like a wounded bird.

He stooped to pick it up, the numbers blurring in his vision. “I know. But—”

“You know?” She laughed, sharp and humorless. “Knowing doesn’t change anything, Dad. It doesn’t make Mom stop crying when she thinks you’re asleep. It doesn’t make my grades better. It doesn’t make you… here.”

The accusation hung in the air, weighing more heavily than the silence that followed. Leo's throat tightened. He was familiar with this feeling—the way failure took up residence in your bones, heavy and unshifting—from the night he'd lost the contract, the promotion, the respect. The night he'd packed a bag instead of facing Amara's tears.

"Can I sit?" He gestured to her bed, the same one she'd shared with stuffed animals until she was ten. It was now stacked with a pile of textbooks and one worn pillow.

Liana shrugged, but when he sat down on the edge, she scooted away, her Converse scraping against the carpet. "Why bother?"

"Because." He traced the edge of the test, the 56 mocking him. "Because I messed up. Really badly. And I… I need to learn how not to do that anymore."

She snorted. "Since when do you care about messing up? You're the guy who built a life out of 'sorry.'"

The jab hit harder than he expected. “I was scared, okay? Scared I’d turn into him—the guy who walked out on your grandma when Mom was two. Scared I’d ruin everything. So I ran. But running… it’s just another kind of ruin.”

Liana’s shoulders tensed. For a heartbeat, she was the little girl who’d once followed him into boardrooms, begging to “help Daddy close deals.” Now she was all sharp edges and unanswered questions. “So you’re done running?”

"I'm tryin'." He winced at the feebleness of it. "Your mom… she don't look at me no more. Says I broke her 'one more chance.' But you… you still yell. So I figured…" He shrugged, not looking at her. "Yellin's better than nothin'."

A beat. Then: "You ever think I'm scared too?"

The rawness of her voice startled him. He turned. Her eyes were bright, too bright, her hands clenched in her lap. “Of what?”

“That I’ll be like you. That I’ll screw up and push everyone away. That when I fail—” Her voice broke. “—nobody’ll stick around to watch me pick up the pieces.”

The confession hung there, weak. Leo's chest ached. He longed to touch her, but the way she recoiled when he reached out told him to keep back. So he pulled a crumpled envelope from his pocket—his old AA sponsor's number, corner-creased and coffee-stained. "This guy… he told me once that failure's not success's opposite. It's the teacher. The more you fall down, the better you learn to get up.".

Liana looked at the envelope. "You still go there? The meetings?"

"Every Tuesday. And Thursdays now too." He tried to smile. "Turns out, I'm a slow learner."

A hint of a laugh escaped. "Mom says you're 'rebuilding.'"

"Your mom's an optimist." He hesitated. "She also says you haven't played your violin in weeks."

The room chilled. Liana's jaw tightened. "Why does she tell you that?"

Because she cares." Leo's throat went dry. "And because… when I heard you stop, I was scared too."

"Forget it." She got up abruptly, her back to the window. Raindrops trickled down the pane like tears. "It's just… when I play, I feel like I'm acting. Like I'm that girl who got straight As and smiled through parent-teacher conferences. But that girl's gone, Dad. She went away with you.".

The words wounded him. He could not help himself, and he blurted, "What if I'm trying to win her back?"

Liana whirled around. "By what? Showing up here like a ghost? Getting me a new sax when my old one is still in the closet? You think things heal people?"

"No." He stood, closing the distance between them so their chests nearly met. "I think people fix people. Or… or they don't. But you never know unless you try."

Her breath hitched. For a moment, he was sure she'd hit him. Instead, she whispered, "What if I don't want to try anymore?"

The question hung between them, a chasm. Leo’s mind raced—say the right thing, say the right thing—but the old scripts felt hollow. So he said the truth: “Then I’ll try for both of us. Even if it’s stupid. Even if I’m terrible at it.”

Liana's eyelids fluttered—fury, terror, something less fierce he couldn't place. Then the door exploded open. Amara stood in the doorway, her hospital scrubs smeared with dried coffee, her eyes a tempest.

"You're still here," she said, not unkindly.

Leo's heart lurched. "I… I was just leaving."

"No." Liana's voice cut through the strain. "He's not."

Amara's gaze darted between them, tightening. "Liana, it's late—"

"Stop it!" They both flinched at Liana's shout. "Stop acting with him like a stranger! Stop acting as though this family's already broken just because you gave up!"

The accusation hung, toxic. Amara's face paled. "I haven't—

"Yes, you did!" Liana elbowed her way past them, knocking Amara's shoulder. "You shut down. You clammed up. You let him go once, so you're doing it now again before he does! But here's the thing, Mom? He's here. And if you're too scared to see that…" Her voice cracked. "…then you're the one to leave."

The door slammed.

Amara and Leo stood amidst the sudden silence, rain a distant rumble. Her eyes sparkled, but she blinked it away. "She's lashing out. She doesn't mean—"

"Doesn't matter." Leo's throat hurt. "She's right. About both of us."

Amara's breath hitched. "Leo, I—"

The sound of shattering glass cut her off. Downstairs, a scream ripped through the night—a neighbor's, short and shrill. Then… silence.

Leo was already moving. He reached the landing first, heart pounding. Amara grabbed his arm. "Wait—"

But the front door was open. Liana's sneakers were gone.

"Liana!" Amara's voice cracked. "Liana, come back!"

Only the rain replied.

Leo dashed into the storm, the cold burning his lungs. He spotted her halfway down the block, hoodie up, running toward the overpass where graffiti crawled like rot.

"LIANA!"

She didn't slow down. He fought through harder, rain blinding him. By the time he reached her, she was huddled beneath the bridge, arms around her knees, her face streaked with tears.

"Why do you even care?!" she shouted over the rain.

"Because!" He dropped to his knees, mud seeping into his jeans. "Because if I lose you too, I'll never stop running. And I… I don't wanna be that guy anymore."

Liana’s sobs shook her. Amara appeared behind them, drenched, her scrubs clinging to her frame. She knelt, tentative. “Liana… we’re scared. All of us. But scared doesn’t have to be forever.”

The girl’s shoulders heaved. Then, without warning, she lunged—not at them, but past them.

Leo caught her wrist. “Wait!”

She twisted free, scrambling toward the highway onramp. Cars blurred past, headlights slicing the dark.

“LIANA, STOP!” Amara screamed.

But Liana kept on running, sneakers skidding on wet asphalt. A truck horn blared.

Time froze.

Then Amara was moving, body a blur, taking Liana down to the pavement as the truck swerved, tires screeching.

Silence.

Panting, Amara sat across Liana, arms pinned. "You idiot! You foolish, stubborn—" Her voice broke. "You're my daughter. You think I get to walk away?!"

Liana's tears merged with rain. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry—"

Amara pressed her forehead into Liana's, crying. "Don't make me choose again ever."

Leo knelt alongside them, trembling. "We're… we're all here. Now. That's something."

Liana's gaze locked onto his. For once, he didn't find defiance, but exhaustion. "You promise?"

He hesitated. Then: "I promise I'll try. Every damn day."

Amara stood, pulling them both up with her. Her hand found Leo's, tightening once. No words. Pressure.

As they walked home, the rain easing to a drizzle, Liana complained, "You owe me a new hoodie now."

Leo smiled. "Consider it a lesson in dramatic exits."

She rolled her eyes, but her fingers brushed his.

At the door, Amara paused. "The violin's in the closet. If you ever want to… play again."

Liana's breath hitched. "Maybe."

"Maybe's enough," Leo said.

For a moment, the world felt almost steady.

Then Amara's phone buzzed. She stared at the screen, all the color draining from her face.

"What's wrong?" Leo asked.

She didn't say anything. Just stared at the message, her knuckles whitening.

Liana attempted to take the phone. "Mom? What's wrong—"

Amara jerked it back, her voice hollow. "It's your grandmother. She… she fell. The hospital called."

The world reeled.

"Is she…?" Leo began, but Amara was already sprinting, her heels clattering against the sidewalk.

Liana hesitated, then took off after her.

Leo was left alone in the doorway, the storm drawing back, the air suddenly too still.

Somewhere, a clock ticked.

He considered the violin in the closet. The AA envelope in his pocket. The promise he'd made.

And then—

A scream tore through the night, not from the street, but from inside the house.

He turned, heart racing, to find the front door wide open.

On the floor, in the foyer, was a single sheet of paper: Liana's math test, the 56 circled in red.

Across it, in erratic ink, were three words:

"I HATE YOU."

The door closed with a whisper.

Silence swallowed everything.