chapter sixteen: cruel truths and keepsakes

Annabeth wishes she could understand what drove Percy to react so explosively. The horror in his eyes when she'd offered to let him stay at her estate, or even lend him the money for an apartment, had been insurmountable. And the rage in his voice when she pressed…In that moment, she wasn't afraid of him. Not exactly. It was something deeper than that.

Now, she's terrified of losing him, that she might've already lost him. When they argued, he became a deer in the headlights and cycled away like he couldn't bear to look at her.

Recently, Annabeth's sleeping pills have been becoming less and less effective. Her doctor thinks it's possible she's already built up a tolerance. But rather than upping the dose, she's moved Annabeth onto a different medication: Triazolam. The shift is making Annabeth paranoid. All she sees when she closes her eyes is her father's bleeding body, crumpled over the steps like some sickening parody of a corpse. The counsellor she's been seeing tells her that The Image will fade over time, but if anything, it's only growing more vivid.

Annabeth's been having dreams again, too. Her nightmares are back in full force now that she's off Zolpidem, and they're as awful as they ever were. Every fucking time she'll manage to fight through her insomnia and fall asleep, she'll only wake bitterly in a cold sweat, screaming her lungs hoarse. Without fail, The Image always stains her thoughts.

Annabeth wonders how she's not used to this by now. She's staring up at her ceiling, quilt pulled up to her chin. A shaft of hazy moonlight falls through a crack in her blinds, spilling onto her bed. Tonight, her mind dwells less on her father than it does on Percy. She's texted him dozens of times, each apology an echo of the last. She desperately wishes he would just talk to her, tell her what she did wrong—so she never has to hurt her best friend again.

Annabeth finds herself returning to their conversation outside the auto shop in her waking moments, of which she has an abundance. I'm gonna move out as soon as I can, he told her. My stepdad's an asshole. The trailer…I hate it there. She replays his words over and over with a religious kind of fervour, hoping that maybe she'll glean something new. There's something else he's hiding—she's sure of it. But hell if she'll push Percy any further, hurt him any more than she already has.

She turns onto her side, hands curling under her pillow. It's the hardest thing in the world to close her eyes, and harder still to hope for sleep.

In the morning when she brushes her teeth, Annabeth averts her eyes from the bathroom mirror. When her under-eye bags are this dark and noticeable, she avoids her reflection like the plague. It's easier, this way. She changes into some comfortable clothes, thankful that it's a Saturday so she doesn't have to think about school.

Downstairs, Helen's asleep on the pull-out bed; she never sleeps in her and Frederick's old bedroom. Annabeth kind of gets it. She probably couldn't cope with the thought of a ghostly imitation of her father sleeping beside her at night, either. "Helen," she calls softly. She doesn't stir, so Annabeth carefully closes the door to the living room to let her sleep a while longer.

Helen would usually be up by noon, but she never does anything in the days anymore. Annabeth hasn't stopped trying to get the caring, soft-hearted, intelligent version of her stepmother back, even though it might be easier to give up. Some part of Annabeth refuses to believe Helen was lost the second that bullet went through her dad's brain.

Bobby's in the kitchen playing a video game on his DS, spooning cereal into his mouth almost as fast as his thumb moves on the controller. He looks up when Annabeth passes. "Did you take my soccer strip out of the washing machine?" he asks, his words muffled around a mouthful of Cheerios.

"Yeah, it's hung up in the garage," she says absently. Annabeth doesn't mind helping out with Bobby and Matthew, especially now that Helen's often out of commission. She stifles a yawn, pouring herself a bowl of cereal. As she pours the milk, she can't stop thinking about whether she should go and talk things out with Percy face-to-face or give him some space. The feeling of uncertainty is a foreign one to Annabeth, and it's disquieting.

Once she's finished with breakfast, she shoots a text to Leo. Can I come round? I kind of need to talk to someone. Out of all her friends, Annabeth knows Leo is the least likely to turn her down. She pins her hair into a messy bun and pulls on shoes, already out the door by the time Leo responds with a thumbs-up.

It's a cool spring morning, and the bitter air nips at Annabeth's cheeks as she walks. She puts her earphones in, tucking her knuckles into her sleeves for warmth. Leo's group home is a fair distance away, but it's easy to fall into a fast, rhythmic walk. The music grounds her, a blissful respite from the whirling thoughts in her head.

When Annabeth reaches the group home, she pulls out her earphones and heads into the courtyard. Leo's already standing outside, arguing animatedly with two guys. At first, none of them notice Annabeth. One of the guys steps forward, towering over him by at least a foot. Leo doesn't shrink back, only stands up straighter and balls his hands into fists. "Why do you even care?" Leo's shouting. "Must be a pretty fragile ego you've got there."

"You're an embarrassment, Valdez," the tall guy hisses. He shoves Leo hard in the chest, making him stumble back. "Want me to tell Jeanne you're a fucking fag?"

Leo spits in his face. "At least I'm not a goddamn bully." At that, the second guy rears forward and punches Leo in the gut. He doubles over, winded.

Annabeth screams, "Stop!" In a half-fledged, futile effort to protect him, she runs in front of him as the first guy draws back his fist to punch Leo again—and instead knocks Annabeth across the face. She cries out, staggering.

"Get out the way, blondie," the tall guy sneers. "I don't like hitting girls." From here, she can see that one of his pupils has broken like spilled pitch.

Rage bubbles up in Annabeth's stomach. "What's wrong with you?" she shouts.

Leo's hand finds her arm from behind her, pulling her back. "Annabeth, don't. Let's just go."

Annabeth looks up into the faces of the two guys and wants for all the world to smash their faces in, but reality tells her that she'd only manage to get both Leo and her hurt in the process. "Okay," she says, already stepping back. They turn and sprint towards Leo's bike, already cycling off as the two guys continue to shout obscenities. Annabeth's quickly bruising eye throbs with pain, but it's nothing compared to the anger she feels. "I'm so mad. I'm so mad," she repeats, over and over. Leo brakes into an alleyway and they stumble off his bike, letting it clatter to the cobblestone floor.

He slides down the alley's wall, drawing his knees into his chest. "You shouldn't have done that," he says. His voice has turned empty and blank, shell-shocked.

Annabeth's hands curl into fists as she paces. "What was I supposed to do? They were…they were going to—" She cuts herself off, too horrified to say the rest.

"It was my fault," he mutters. "And it's not like they're wrong."

"Wrong?" she shouts, incredulous. "They tried to beat you up!"

"I know that. God." He looks up at her, then, expression brimming with apologies. "I'm so sorry. Christ, your eye…"

"My eye's fine. I'm worried about you." She kneels in front of him, so they're level with each other. "I heard what they said. And I want you to know that there's nothing fucking wrong with you, okay? Nothing." Her voice cracks. "You deserve more."

Leo scrubs his palms over his face, like he can't bear to look at her. "This is so shit. I didn't want you to find out this way," he whispers.

"I didn't."

His head snaps up. "What?"

"That's not how I found out," she says slowly, hating the panic in his eyes. "I saw you kiss that guy in the garden, at your party. I didn't mean to, I swear. But it's okay, Leo," she insists. "It's okay."

He looks tortured. "It's not okay. I'm what they called me," he says, voice cracking. "I'm a fag."

Annabeth's already shaking her head. "No one's a fag, Leo. That's not a descriptor, that's a slur. It's okay that you like guys."

He picks at his nails, at their chipped varnish. "Aren't you mad that I didn't tell you?"

"Of course not." She adds, "You never had to tell me anything, if that isn't what you want."

"It's been eating me up," he admits. "I thought you'd hate me if I ever said anything."

And God, that makes Annabeth's heart hurt. She throws her arms around him, pulling him into a hug. "You're an idiot if you think I could ever hate you," she murmurs.

Leo laughs tiredly. "I know." He hugs her back, burying his head into her shoulder. They cling to each other for a moment longer, seeking warmth.

When Annabeth finally pulls away, it's like pieces of their world have slotted back into place. "Do I have to convince you not to run away?" she asks him. It's an aching question, one that's been asked a thousand times before.

To her surprise, Leo shakes his head. "I think I'll stay," he decides. "If I ran away, I'd probably miss you too much."

"Wow, that's actually pretty sweet."

He swats her. "Don't spread the word—you'll ruin my reputation." Annabeth laughs. Soon, he's laughing with her. "What did you want to talk about?" he asks.

"Oh. I forgot about that," she realises, remembering the text she sent him. "It seems stupid, now."

"I'm sure it's not stupid. Come on, you wanted to talk," he presses.

She sighs, turning around to sit beside him against the wall. "I had an argument with Percy. Looking back, it was dumb—but I'm scared I really hurt him."

"Hurt him how?"

"Well. He told me before how much he wants to leave the trailer, that he's been saving money to move out. I don't know that much about it, but I think he and his stepdad argue a lot." Thinking about it is painful. She stares at the floor, where moss breaks through crumbling mortar. "I said he should come live with me, or I could maybe lend him money to move out. He got upset and he stormed off—he couldn't even look at me." She pauses, resting her chin on her knees. "We've never argued like that before. God, I just wish I knew what I did wrong."

Leo's watching her carefully. "I think you probably hurt his pride. If I'd been saving for years to move out, and someone who's always had money offered to fix the problem just like that…" He trails off, and suddenly Annabeth understands.

"God, I'm the worst," she groans.

"No, you're not," he tells her, unwavering. "You were trying to help. I guess some things just got lost in translation."

"Is it bad that I wish he'd let me fix everything, just like that? Even though it might hurt his pride?" she asks.

"You're human, Annie, not perfect. You can't get everything right all the damn time." He nudges her, smiling. "Even though you think you can."

She rolls her eyes, but her chest still feels heavy. "I'll talk to him," she says. "Once he's had some space. There's no use avoiding each other until everything seems even more broken."

"It'll be okay," Leo murmurs, resting his head on her shoulder. They sit there for a while, minds overtaken by wandering thoughts.

For the next few days, all Annabeth can think about is Percy. She checks her phone constantly for a text from him, to no avail. Space is all Percy usually needs after an argument, but she knows that he's liable to start blaming himself if left alone long enough.

It's the middle of the night. Annabeth's mind has been at war with itself since the sun went down. She's given up trying to do some chemistry homework for the next day and has fallen back onto her bed. Her white Triazolam bottle on her dresser stands stark in the darkness, an easy solution to the fizzling wires in her mind—but it hasn't done much for the nightmares, lately. It's almost easier to stay awake, to fend off The Image with thoughts of something, anything else.

Helen still hasn't cleared out the master bedroom, won't even allow Annabeth or her brothers inside. Annabeth doesn't know how long her stepmother's going to try keeping whatever pristine image of it she has in her head alive, but she suspects Helen thinks one day she'll open the door and her husband will be sitting on the bed inside, smiling and subsisting.

Lately, Annabeth hasn't been able to fight the urge to go inside. She's already got closure, but now she wants answers. Not answers like why he was shot in the head with an untraceable bullet, not even answers like how all the police and the private investigators hadn't found even a footprint of evidence related to his death. No—she wants to know who her dad was in a life long-ago lived, how he got involved in a crime syndicate and why he left. Had it been for Helen, or even for Annabeth's birth mother?

Annabeth gets to her feet and wraps a nightgown around herself. She knows where she can look. Not the bedroom: the shed, which Frederick used to store all his old stuff. He was the only one who ever used it.

Grabbing a flashlight from her bedside table, Annabeth descends the stairs as quietly as she can and peers into the kitchen. Helen stands at the stove, mindlessly stirring a pot of milk. She looks lifeless and empty. It hurts to see her stepmother like this, a woman who was once so full of warmth. Shaking thoughts of Helen from her head, Annabeth sneaks through the hallway and grabs the key to the garage that hangs by the back door. It creaks on its hinges when she opens it, but the rain's loud enough outside that the sound is virtually unnoticeable.

Annabeth hurries barefoot across the grass, bracing herself against the brutal wind and rain. She fumbles with the shed's lock, struggling to fit the key into it. Finally, it clicks. She swings the door open, closing it behind her with a thump. Heaving a breath, she tucks her sodden hair behind her ear. She turns on her flashlight, sweeping it around the room until she spots a hanging pull cord. When she tugs it, the shed is instantly flooded by dim, yellow light. The rain is loud and jarring, amplified into bullets against the shed's tin roof.

Boxes upon boxes are stacked everywhere. Annabeth starts pulling them out, seized by animal desperation. She wants so badly to know who her father was, if her soft-spoken and geeky father had been nothing but a fucking front. There's toolboxes, photographs, postcards and Christmas lights. Hands shaking, she realises she doesn't even know what she's looking for. Is she crazy?

Suddenly, she finds a box with the word Keepsakes scrawled across the side in Sharpie. It's half-buried and coated in a layer of dust, but she drags it out anyway. She prises off the duct tape and presses the cardboard flaps aside, certain there'll be nothing inside but useless souvenirs and movie ticket stubs. But there's more than that: stacks of photographs, each bound by elastic bands. As Annabeth moves to pick them up, her fingers brush against something smooth and wooden: a jewellery box. She lifts it out, only half-breathing. There's a bronze latch at the front, and she slips her nail under it. Easily as anything, it lifts.

As she opens the jewellery box, Annabeth's lungs seize. Within it lies a shotgun, cushioned on a bed of velvet. The handle is mahogany, and carved almost imperceptibly into the wood with beautiful precision are the words For F, from A.

Annabeth drops the box, and it clatters harshly onto the shed's stone floor. The gun falls out of it. From A? Swallowing her fear, Annabeth reaches for it. The handle is cool, comfortable to grip. In Annabeth's hand, it feels alien. Who's A? She wishes she knew, wishes she had more context so she could connect the hidden dots. Replacing the gun, she closes the box and exhales.

Behind her, the door creaks. A soft voice calls, "Annabeth?"

She whips her head around, guilt flashing through her like lightning. Her stepmother stands in the doorway, feet bare and hair dripping wet. "Helen?"

"Is that your dad's stuff?" Helen asks. She sounds…confused, maybe. But her eyes are more awake and present than they've been since the funeral.

Annabeth nods. "Yeah. I just—"

"I know." Helen kneels down next to her, taking the box from Annabeth. She sighs, gazing at it. "Your dad had a lot of secrets," she says. "He never told me much about any of it. But I never minded. Who he'd been in the past didn't matter to me; it was who he was that I loved." Helen opens the box, but she doesn't seem interested in the gun. Instead, she removes the velvet cushion and withdraws an old sepia photograph from beneath it. She offers the photograph to Annabeth, who takes it with reverence.

"Who…" Annabeth asks, but trails off. A young man and woman stand in the photograph, and they both look around eighteen. He's grinning from ear to ear, arm looped over her shoulders. To Annabeth's shock, a silver revolver hangs at his waist. Annabeth's breath stutters as she recognises him. "That's Dad," she realises.

Helen smiles quietly. "He was handsome, wasn't he?"

Annabeth's eyes linger on her dad's living, laughing face for a moment longer before flitting to the woman beside him. "And who's that?"

Helen's silent for a moment. "Someone we both knew. Someone…someone he cared for." She looks up, expression fervent. "Don't you recognise her?"

Annabeth looks carefully at the woman. She looks stern, but there's a weightless kind of affection in the tilt of her smile. There's something familiar about her features, in her nose and the curve of her jaw. "I don't know," she whispers.

"She's your mom," Helen tells her softly. "Your birth mother."

Shock, denial, then anger flash through Annabeth like an electric current. "What? Why have you never shown me a photo of her before?" She turns back to the photograph, desperate to feel any kind of attachment to this unknown woman. "She can't be," Annabeth murmurs. "You never even told me her name."

"Her name was Athena," Helen says, as though that three-syllable word isn't enough to shatter Annabeth's reality completely. "Your dad's old girlfriend, back when he was still tangled up in crime."

"You…you knew her?"

"I did. In fact, I'm the one behind the camera." Annabeth's gaze settles on the photograph as she struggles to comprehend the painful truth of Helen's words. "Athena worked with your dad."

"Legitimate work?" Annabeth asks, but she already knows the answer. Her dad would still be alive if all he'd ever been was a fucking pilot. "I'm guessing she's dead, too."

When Helen nods, a new kind of heartache swallows Annabeth up. The crisp photograph falls out of her hand, swaying in slow motions to the floor. Tears prickle her eyes—tears of grief. Still, how can she grieve a mother she never had? Annabeth turns to Helen, but she's distracted by a different photograph. Only her father is in this one, turning over his shoulder to grin cheekily at the camera. They're in an unfamiliar city; it could only have been taken when he and Helen went travelling. Helen's hands shake as she holds the photograph, and Annabeth realises her stepmother is crying. "I miss him," she whispers. "I miss everything we were."

Annabeth slots her arms around Helen, resting her cheek on her shoulder. "I know."

"This isn't fair," her stepmother whispers.

"I know," Annabeth repeats, unable to summon the willpower to say anything else. For a moment, she's fallen back in time to the aftermath of finding her father, to seeking comfort in Helen's arms—except this time, she's the one who needs to be strong.

When they pull apart, the once timeless rain has ceased and a blank visage of non-presence has settled over Helen once again.

The next day, Annabeth grows tired of constantly checking her phone for a text from Percy. Her guilt is beginning to consume her, and she's worried about him. The trailer park is too far to walk, so she digs her old bike out of the garage and pulls her messy hair up into a ponytail to brave Virginia's winds. Percy never has any shifts on Sunday afternoons—with any luck, he'll be at home. Slipping her earphones in, she sets off at a fast cycle.

She slides off her bike when she reaches the trailer park, wheeling it beside her as she walks along the burnt-grass path. She's rarely ever been here, and every time Percy's been uncomfortable and eager for her to leave. Steeling herself, she approaches his trailer. It's the same as all the others, low-roofed and bleak. The lights are on inside, so she ascends the steps and knocks hesitantly on the door. She waits a few long seconds, then knocks again.

With a click, the door swings open. Percy's standing behind it, hand still resting on the door handle. "Annabeth! What are you doing here?" he hisses, but he seems more anxious than irritated.

"I'm really sorry," she says in a rush. "I shouldn't have—"

She's cut off by a gruff voice from inside shouting, "Who's at the door?"

"A friend from school," Percy quickly calls, then steps outside and closes the door behind him. "You shouldn't be here," he tells her, glancing over his shoulder. Then his gaze locks on Annabeth's face, and he narrows his eyes. "Who did that to you?"

"What?" She reaches up, fingertips brushing her black eye that she's forgotten about. "Oh, it's nothing. Percy, I shouldn't have been so stupid," she continues. "I think I hurt you, and I'm really sorry—"

"Let's not talk here," he interrupts, starting down the steps to grab his own bike. "Come on." Dumbfounded, she follows him. They cycle out of the trailer park, winding up on a bench by the wayside. Percy's downcast, but at least he doesn't seem so angry with Annabeth anymore.

"I tried texting you," she says. "I was worried, and I wanted to apologise. It's been all I can think about."

Percy's silent for a moment. "You don't need to. I was way out of line. I shouldn't have yelled at you," he adds, "that was shitty of me."

She shakes her head. "No. Percy, you were right to be mad. I was acting small-minded."

"No, you were just trying to help. The reason I ran off is 'cause I was scared of not being able to, uh, hold back. I was so angry."

"Even angry, you'd never hurt me," she rebukes, incredulous. "Don't be so stupid."

"Weren't you supposed to be apologising to me, not insulting me?" A smile begins to tug at his lips.

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, be quiet." They laugh, and the unshakeable burden that was dragging Annabeth down begins to ease off her shoulders. "I am sorry, though. I hate making you upset."

"I just don't like feeling useless," Percy says quietly.

She jerks her head up. "You're not useless. How could you think that?"

"I don't know. It's dumb," he says, releasing a ragged breath. His attention lifts to her bruised eye again. Tentatively, he touches the blossoming edge of it with the pad of his thumb. "What happened?" he asks again. "Don't shrug it off. I wanna know."

Annabeth sighs. "A couple guys were about to beat Leo up, and I got in the way. He's okay, though," she reassures him. "We booked it before they could try anything else."

"Can you not be so reckless?" he asks her, haltingly. "Please. I don't like seeing you hurt."

"In the moment, I clearly wasn't thinking," she protests. "It all worked out, anyway."

"I missed you, you know," he tells her. "I wanted to answer your texts, I was just…" He sighs, tearing his gaze away from her black eye. "Scared, I guess. I thought you hated me."

She shakes her head, throwing her arms around him. "God, you absolute idiot. I could never hate you." Hesitantly, he hugs her back, tucking his chin over her shoulder. The smell of machine oil clings to his hair. "You know that, right?"

"Right," Percy murmurs. A heady, rosy feeling envelops Annabeth, and she realises she never wants to let this boy go.

thanks for reading! I'm living for annabeth and leo's friendship, tbh. let me know what you thought :D