I press my lips into his gently, letting my tongue flick out just the slightest bit. He reacts immediately, opening his mouth wider to deepen our kiss. I bring my hands down his bare chest and feel goosebumps rise over the surface of his skin. The way he shivers from my touch brings me such great satisfaction, encouraging me to continue.  

Henry’s own hands find their way behind my knees, and he hikes my legs up around his hips so that I sit squarely on top of him, my lips still firmly connected to his. My already labored breath hitches, and my stomach flips suddenly when Henry squeezes my upper thighs. It has me pressing my body further into his in some attempt to get closer. If I wasn’t aroused before, I certainly am now.  

I try to be better than my father; I truly do, but teenage lust is so tempting. I had no right to criticize his young naivety; we are the same.  

Henry's hands creep up slowly to rest on my hips, so frustratingly close to where I really want his touch. It kills me and makes my skin burn lasciviously. I want him, and it’s all I can think about—it’s all I can focus on—even as the sound of Pa calling my name reaches my ears. Because the old man can wait, but I cannot.  

By now, Henry has learned that I have absolutely no regard for the concerns of my father, and at this very moment, I am sure Henry is too far submerged in his own lust to care anyway. I can see it in the way he hungrily flips us around and dives back in to kiss me, finally taking control of the situation for himself.  

It is only then do the fast but heavy footsteps in the hall become audible, and we have no time to separate ourselves before the door of my room is thrown open. I can’t believe my eyes at first, but Henry can, instantly scrambling away from me with the most explicit look of fear on his face. Never in my life have I seen such a terrified expression; it could only be attributed to seeing his seven-foot-tall abusive father standing in the doorway of his lover's room, absolutely seething with unimaginable rage. I can only watch, stunned, as Connor O’Brien marches forward toward his now crying son, who is shaking his head with silent pleas—begging for mercy as he cowers—but it doesn’t seem to be of any aid; Connor is unyielding.  

Without a word, Connor grabs Henry by the top of his red hair and pulls him off the bed. Henry yelps in pain and claws desperately at his father's wrist, but Connor gives no tell that he even feels it. He just carries on back out of my room, heartlessly dragging his teenage child down the stairs of my house. And only my father is left standing in my doorway.  

By all means, I don’t expect Pa to do anything, but he surprises me. Apparently, all took was one look at me to know that, if anything needs to be fought for, it’s Henry. So, for the first time in his life, he doesn’t just sit back and let things play out; he fights. To the best of his abilities at least. 

“Mr. O’Brien, I just think if you sat down for a minute and listened to—” Pa begins, a hint of desperation in his voice, but Connor cuts him off.  

“My son is not a fairy.” 

Pa gives a strained and nervous laugh. “I beg to differ here.” 

Though I’m certain Pa's cries fall on deaf ears, I cling to the unreasonable hope that Connor might listen, so I follow after them anyway, delusively anticipating a change of heart from the unchangeable man.  

I stay a distance behind the three—my father, Connor, and the now minuscule boy laying on the floor with tear streaks staining his cheeks. I’m astonished that my father dares to step so closely to the outwardly violent man. After all, John Mark is but an underqualified attorney, and Connor O’Brien is a machine—a steam engine—unaffected by any mere obstruction in his track. 

Wait, I should correct myself here: he is unaffected by most obstructions. He stops once. In front of my mother. And he shakes her hand. 

It’s all I need to see to know. It’s all my father needs to see to know as well. And when the front door closes, the silence that follows is of pure disbelief. Then my mother walks away, brushing past us to retreat into her room as if nothing had happened.  

That’s when I finally seem to wake up from my daze, and my legs collapse under me as a sob escapes my throat. Immediately, my father drops down beside me, pulling me into his arms for comfort.  

“James, James,” he whispers, “it’s going to be okay.” 

“This is my fault; I’m sorry.” 

“I should’ve kept a tighter grip on that woman.” 

“I’m supposed to be your protector, and I failed.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I convinced you that all of this was okay, and I lied.” 

I dig my fingers into his arms and cringe. 

“No,” I choke, “you didn’t.” 

He pulls away to look at me. 

“This is okay,” I say, but I think I’m only reassuring myself. 

My father swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing as he does so. Then he looks down at the floor between us. “If only everyone thought that way.” 

My lungs hiccup painfully, and I can’t catch my breath through my tears. Pa reaches over to rub my back, and he rests his head atop mine. It's his only way to soothe me. 

“Do you think you could stay here for a second?” he asks softly, and I nod. 

“Okay,” he continues. “Now, I’m going to go deal with the woman in the other room who decided to be a filthy snake to anybody who finds even the slightest amount of joy in their life. You know, as time goes on, I begin to hate your mother more and more.” 

I nod again when he pauses, and he seems to take that silence to reflect for a moment. 

Then a second later, he adds, “To think that once upon a time I thought I could love her. What has become of that?” 

I look up at him, wiping my eyes, and he gives me a quick half-smile. Finally, he rises back to his feet and takes a deep breath in, giving me one last glance before turning away. 

“Martha, you fucking whore!” he yells, his emotions turning on a dime as rage washes over. 

Though he storms away and disappears into the other room, I can still clearly hear the conversation. I don’t know why I decide to listen. My curiosity overwhelms me I suppose, trumping the stress I derive from my parents’ fights. It’s only worse now that I’ve seen to what lengths Pa would take his anger.  

“You’ve already ruined my happiness; now, you dare to ruin my son’s,” Pa shouts. “You didn’t need to make this worse than it already was.” 

“It’s all because of you!” she replies. 

“You are the only guilty one here. I’ve done nothing but try to make him happy.” 

“You’re lucky I don’t turn you in to the police,” she spits. 

“You’re lucky I don’t beat you as other husbands would.” 

“Oh, but killing me is not off the table. I see now.” 

“You would’ve been dead years ago with a different man. At least I care about my children.” 

“Maybe it would be better if you didn’t. I refuse to let my son turn the way you have. You’re corrupting my family!” 

“Your family? I built this—” 

I don’t bother with the rest. I’ve heard how it goes from here.