Chapter 80 Chapter Seventy-Six
Omniscient Narrative
Alex didn't know how long he cried for.
Time blurred into something shapeless, measured only by the way his chest kept seizing and releasing, by the sting in his eyes and the ache settling deep into his ribs.
His hands trembled where they were pressed against his face, knuckles pale, fingers numb.
His father stayed beside him the entire time.
He didn't tell his son to calm down.
He didn't tell Alex ‘it'll be okay’.
He didn't say stop crying.
He just stayed, stayed as support for his son.
The anger that had chased Alex down the driveway seemed like a lifetime ago now.
His father's presence was quieter, heavier in a different way, no longer confrontation, but concern restrained by patience.
When Alex's sobs finally began to slow, breaking into rough, uneven breaths, his father spoke again.
"Wow son, you don't cry like this unless something really matters," he said quietly.
Alex swallowed hard. His throat felt raw, scraped hollow by regret.
"It mattered," Alex whispered. "It mattered more than I let myself admit."
His father nodded slowly, staring out at the street rather than at him. "I figured."
Alex dragged a shaky breath through his nose and wiped his face roughly with his sleeve, embarrassed by how wrecked he felt.
He'd cried before, but not like this. Not with his whole body folded in on itself like he'd lost something essential.
"I shouldn't have said it," Alex said, voice cracking again. "I was angry. And scared. And I wanted him to hurt the way I was hurting."
His father's jaw tightened, not in judgment, recognition.
"That's usually how it happens," he said. "Words become weapons when we don't know how else to protect ourselves."
Alex nodded faintly, staring at the pavement. "I don't think I can fix it."
Silence stretched between them, thick and thoughtful.
His father didn't rush to contradict him.
Instead, he asked, "Do you want to fix it?"
The question hit harder than any accusation.
Alex's chest tightened again. He pressed his lips together, eyes burning.
"Yes," he whispered. "More than anything."
His father exhaled slowly. "Then you're not as far gone as you think."
Alex let out a shaky, humorless laugh. "It feels like I am."
His father shifted slightly, leaning back on his hands. "When I was your age," he said after a moment, "I thought messing up meant I was done. That one bad choice defined everything."
Alex glanced at him, surprised.
"But it doesn't," his father continued. "What defines you is what you do after you realize you've hurt someone."
Alex stared at the ground again.
"I don't even know what I'm feeling," he admitted. "I just know it hurts. And I don't understand why."
His father didn't push.
"That's okay," he said instead. "You don't need the answers right now."
Alex's shoulders sagged slightly at that, relief mixing with exhaustion.
"I fought him dad," Alex murmured. "I actually fought him."
His father's expression darkened briefly, but his voice stayed calm. "You did. And that's something we'll deal with. But right now? I'm more concerned about you."
Alex frowned faintly. "Why?"
"Because you're sitting on a curb crying like you just lost someone," his father said gently. "And that tells me this isn't just about anger."
Alex's breath hitched again.
"I don't know how to carry this," he whispered.
His father reached out and placed a steady hand on Alex's shoulder. "You don't have to carry it alone."
Alex didn't respond right away. He leaned slightly into the touch, barely noticeable, but it was there.
"I'm not ready to talk," Alex said quietly. "About why but soon dad."
His father nodded. "That's fine."
No when will you be.
No you need to tell me.
Just acceptance.
"But when you are," his father added, "I'll listen. No matter what it is."
Alex's eyes burned again.
"Okay," he whispered.
They sat there together for a long while after that, the night cooling around them.
The party noise from the house had faded completely now, replaced by distant crickets and the low hum of streetlights.
Eventually, his father stood and offered Alex a hand.
"Come on," he said gently. "Let's go home."
Alex hesitated, then took it.
As he stood, his legs unsteady, he felt the weight of what he'd done settle back into his chest, but it wasn't crushing him anymore.
Not completely.
Because for the first time since Demi ran away, Alex wasn't being yelled at or judged or demanded of.
He was just being allowed to hurt.
And right now he needed this, he needed to be hurt, he deserved it so much.