Chapter 19: 19

Dona’s POV

I couldn’t close my eyes that night. Every time I tried, I saw flashes of the kitchen. I saw shards of ceramic, broken glass, the sound of bullets whistling through the air. My ears were still ringing faintly, my brain was still thinking in fight-or-flight mode like it hadn’t gotten the memo that things were over.

The house was much too quiet for my liking. Mom wasn’t home, Peter wasn’t home, and even though August was just downstairs, the silence made me want to crawl out of my skin.

I was sitting on the edge of my bed, hugging a pillow to my chest, when I heard a knock on my door. The door creaked open, and August peeked inside. His white compression shirt was dark with wetness under the armpits.

“The kitchen is clean,” he said quietly. “As much as it can be.”

"Already?”

"Yeah. I didn’t feel like sitting around." He peered at me. "Are you doing okay?”

I pressed my lips together, then shook my head. “Not really.”

He stepped in, closing the door behind him. For a second, I thought he was going to say something sarcastic, or joke about how I screamed the whole time, or how I almost fainted, but to my surprise, his face stayed calm.

“Do you…” I hesitated, fingers tightening around the pillow. This felt ridiculous, but my throat burned until I forced the words out. “Do you mind staying? Just for tonight. I don’t want to be alone in here.”

I braced myself for a joke, a laugh, something to make me regret asking. But August only nodded.

“Give me a minute. I’ll grab something.”

When he left, I let out a shaky breath that I’d been holding since the words left my mouth. A couple of minutes later, he returned, holding a thick, worn book in one hand.

“What’s that?” I asked, frowning.

He dropped into the bean bag chair in the corner, flicking on my lava lamp. The soft pink glow brightened his face and shadows shifted under his jaw. He held the book up.

“The Brothers Karamazov,” he replied. “Dostoevsky.”

I sat up. “Wait. You read Dostoevsky?”

He flipped the book open and settled back. “Why are you acting surprised?”

“I didn’t think you were the… book type,” I admitted. “Let alone Russian literature.”

That actually made him grin, but it wasn’t his usual teasing grin. This one was softer. “You’d be surprised what I read. This one is my favorite.”

I pulled my blanket tighter around me, watching him. “Okay then, Mr. Literature. Tell me what it’s about.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “Well, it’s about three brothers. They’re all different. One is all about reason, one is impulsive and the last one is religious. Their father is a mess, he's selfish and cruel, and… well, things spiral from there. It’s about faith, guilt, morality, love, all of it. Dostoevsky just… he makes you feel like you’re inside their heads.”

I pursed my lips. “You actually sound like you care.”

“Because I do.” He glanced up at me. “Sometimes books are the only place things make sense.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. This was the first time we’d spoken like this without fighting, without me wanting to strangle him.

He returned to his book, turned a page, then asked, “What about you? Do you read anything?”

I shook my head. “Not like that. I don’t care for fiction.”

“What do you care for then?”

“Facts and numbers, stuff I can measure.” I sighed, my shoulders loosening a little as I spoke. “That’s why I’m doing engineering. I like taking things apart and putting them back together. Numbers don’t lie, unlike fiction."

He tilted his head at me. “So… you’re a proper nerd.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I am not a nerd! I play basketball too. I made the junior league in high school.”

As if playing basketball was the polar opposite of being a nerd. But that got his attention. “You? Basketball?”

“Yes. Don’t sound so shocked.”

"Basketball." He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “I dabble sometimes. We should shoot around at the community court, see what you’ve got.”

I smiled coyly. "Game on, Reynolds."

August smiled back at me and kept reading his book. I watched the glow from the lava lamp move across the walls. I didn't feel so scared anymore. Somehow, with him sitting there, the shadows in the corners didn’t feel as threatening.

“Hey,” I called out softly.

His eyes lifted from the page. “Yeah?”

“Can you… I don’t know. Move closer? Just...” I paused, embarrassed. “Closer to the bed.”

He didn’t tease me. “Okay", was all he said.

He dragged the bean bag across the floor until it bumped the side of my bed. Then he sat back down, leaning into it with the book in hand. “Better?”

“Yeah,” I whispered.

For a while, the room was quiet except for the sound of pages turning. My eyelids got heavier with sleep, and I started drifting.

I was halfway gone when I heard the sound of a door opening. The sound carried across the house.

My body jerked upright before I could stop it. My lungs seized and I gasped, choking on air like I was drowning. My heart went into overdrive, and my hands clutched the blanket like it could shield me from bullets.

“Dona!” August was already on his feet, the book dropping to the carpet. He pressed his hands down on my shoulders. “Hey, hey, look at me. You’re safe. It’s fine. It's not the shooter. It’s not. You’re okay.”

I forced myself to meet his eyes. The steady look there, the calm in his tone, it worked. Slowly and painfully, my lungs remembered how to breathe properly.

“There you go,” he murmured, giving my shoulder a small squeeze. “Just breathe.”

The footsteps downstairs became clearer, and I tensed again.

“I’ll check who it is.” August said. “Stay here.”

Before I could argue, he slipped out of the room. His steps were heavy down the staircase, then I heard voices: his and another, deeper one. Recognition came slowly, through the haze in my head. Peter.

I remained on the bed and imagined August telling him everything that happened that night. Maybe Peter would call the cops. Maybe he’d move us out of here. Maybe something finally would make sense.

But minutes dragged by, and nothing about their voices told me what was being said. I could only imagine.

I didn’t sleep again until August came back. He closed the door quietly, running a hand through his hair before sitting back down in the bean bag.

“It was just my dad,” he relayed.

I nodded slowly. “Did you tell him?”

August rubbed the back of his neck. “Not yet.”

My head snapped toward him. “Not yet? August, someone literally shot at us through the kitchen windows!”

“I know, I know. I just… I don’t know how to say it. He asked about the mess downstairs, and I told him something fell. I’ll figure it out, just not tonight.”

“You’re seriously going to keep that from him?” I asked.

“I’m not keeping it forever,” he said quickly. “I just… I need to think first. Okay?”

I read the words he wasn't saying in his eyes. August didn't tell his dad, because he didn't trust his dad not to do something stupid. I pressed my lips together, but I didn’t argue. I was too exhausted. The fight left my body all at once, and I sank back into the pillows.

August watched me for a moment, then leaned back into the bean bag with his book again, like he was determined to sit there all night if I needed him to.

I closed my eyes. I wasn’t at ease, not really. The thought of some stranger pulling the trigger was still in my head. But with the glow of the lava lamp and the sound of pages turning beside me, I let myself drift. Sleep caught me before the fear could win again.