Many times my mind has wandered to the idea of what I would do when Dad came home. How I would react, what I would say, etc. I thought about it a lot, practiced what I would say, tried to predict how I would feel, but nothing could have prepared me for it actually happening.

I stare at him and he looks back and there's so many emotions running through his eyes right now. My heart squeezes in my chest and I frown, hard. I'm cold and wet and I want to change and part of me doesn't really want to see him. Doesn't want him here.

But then Mom's pulling away and turning her head to stare at me, tears falling down her face, her hazel eyes wide with relief that her husband is home safe. She looks at me. "Oh, El! You're home!" She takes note of my soaking clothes and gasps. "Honey, you're dripping! Hurry along, go get changed. You can see your father when you're not flooding the house."

I take Alfonzo with me, throw him, along with my backpack, on the bed when I get to my room and sift through my clothes. Pulling out a pair of blue leggings, I exchange them with my sopping wet leggings from earlier. I throw my old clothes in the hamper, put on an old t-shirt and sit down on my bed, dry and unhappy.

Truthfully, I do not want to go back downstairs, do not want to see my dad or converse with him. Because that means Mom will expect me to act like everything is okay, to force a grin for him, act like he didn't stop writing to us when he did. I don't know if I have it in me. My stomach is twisting itself into knots and I feel angry tears burning at the corner of my eyes. I force them back and let Alfonzo lick my face.

When Mom calls me back downstairs, I do so begrudgingly, wishing I could just jump out of my window and head over to the Lennox's and start watching Annabelle, even though Sarah was probably still there. Her shift doesn't start until seven, after all.

Alfonzo prances beside me as I step back into the living room. Mom is busy cleaning up the water on the floor and I would have stopped her and done it myself, but I am frozen in place.

Dad is standing now and his arms are wide open, as though he's expecting me to fall straight into them. When I make no move to hug him, he furrows his eyebrows, gazing at me with a speculative glance. I narrow my eyes and swallow the bitterness I'm feeling.

"Ellie?" he asks. "What's the matter? Aren't you going to give me a hug? I've been gone for so long."

Don't I know it, I think, giving a bitter chuckle.

"El, honey," Mom speaks up when I remain silent and still, "go give your father a hug. He just got home, sweetie."

But I don't want to and I will not. I stare at Dad and feel irrationally angry, feel my eyes well up again and not because I'm relieved that he's alive and home (which I am) but because I'm livid that he thinks he has the right to act like everything is normal, like he didn't just leave us in our time of need.

"I see that," I tell my mom in a monotone. "Welcome home."

Dad sends me a confused look. He licks his lips and takes a step forward. "Ellie, I know how hard it must have--"

"Do you?" I snap, cutting him off. "Do you know how hard it must have been? Because I don't think you do, Dad. I don't think you understand it at all." I give a humorless laugh. "And why would you, huh? It's not like you were there for any of it. You just let us handle it. Alone. Because you were off trying to play hero."

"Eleanor Jane!" Mom scolds, standing.

Dad shakes his head. "It's okay, sweetheart." He looks at me with a frown. "Ellie, I know I wasn't there and I know how much it must have hurt but you have to believe me when I say--"

"The thing is, Dad, I don't care what you have to say," I tell him, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I don't care at all. You can make up some bullshit excuse about it but it doesn't excuse the fact that you left us all alone. You didn't even come to the funeral!"

And I'm definitely crying now and I can't stop it because I'm so hurt and angry and my heart is swelling in my chest, beating so fast I think it might pop out. My dad stares at me with his emerald eyes, soft with hurt and guilt. I hate how they look exactly like mine.

"Ellie, I'm sorry!" he exclaims, reaching forward like he wants to embrace me.

I scoff. "I don't care! Take your empty apologies and shove off!"

"Eleanor!" Mom is sobbing again, but she's sad and disheartened now. I hate myself for making her upset.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I whisper.

Thunder cracks, closer this time and I flinch away at the noise. I can see the exact moment when Dad spots the scar on my face. He gasps quietly, reaches out like he might touch it then pulls his hand back.

He sounds choked up when he says, "Ellie." And then he starts crying, too, and I wish I could leave, wish someone would take me far away from this house. "Ellie, I'm so, so sorry. I didn't know--and you were. Ellie, I'm sorry."

I heave a bitter laugh, wiping away my tears. Staring at Dad, I see the regret, the pain, swimming in his eyes, but I can't find myself to feel sorry. When I look at him, all I feel is a stinging loathing that wraps around my whole body like a cold blanket.

"I have to babysit Annabelle tonight," I say quietly. I suddenly feel drained, exhausted. "I'll be at the Lennox's. Don't wait up."

And I walk away from my parents, from this whole situation that should be something happy, something that I can look back on and smile, but is anything but. Mom cries into her hand and I can hear my dad console her, hear him wrap her up in his arms, soothing her aching cries.

I slam the door on my way out.

The rain is still pouring when I exit the house but I pay it no mind as I make the short journey over to the Lennox's. I'm soaked again before I can even reach the house and I just sigh outwardly, knowing that I'm probably going to have a major head cold once this is all over. I can see Sarah's car in the gravel drive, but I furrow my eyes when I notice there's another vehicle accompanying hers.

The exterior is a shiny black, gleaming with droplets of rain as it's assaulted viciously. It's a truck, tall as it sits in the drive of the Lennox's. I frown in confusion, wondering if maybe Sarah decided she didn't like small cars anymore. That big, GMC trucks are her style instead. Something more secure, more threatening instead of a soft, motherly Buick.

I try to ignore it, try to ignore how uneasy the huge thing makes me feel, how it sends a familiar sense of foreboding through my body, and I walk straight into their house.

Baby Annabelle is crying when I enter, sopping wet and dripping all over their rugs. I feel bad about it, guilt bubbling up in me as I head forward, into the living room. There's cooing and shushing and relieved cries and I hurry, something else coiling around me. It makes me feel warm and light and when I see William Lennox in his living room, cradling Sarah and Annabelle, my heart tugs.

"Uncle Will," I say, astonished. My wet hair falls in my face as I stare at them. "You're home."

Will sends me a grin, white teeth gleaming. He doesn't even seem to mind that I'm getting water all over his hardwood floor. Sarah takes Annabelle and gives me a smile, too.

And for the first time in awhile, I feel content, happy, as Will embraces me in his arms and I allow it. Allow it because he's like family, like another dad to me though we aren't related by blood. I wrap my arms around his waist, grip the man whom I've known since I was a child with the strength of a thousand men, afraid that if I let go, he'll disappear just like everyone else has.

"Ellie," he whispers at me, an endearment. "It's been awhile."

I laugh wetly, nodding an agreement. "It has."

Thunder booms in the distant and, faintly, I can hear the rain simmering down. It isn't pounding against the roof like before and I heave a silent sigh of relief as I pull away from William.

"Eleanor, would you like a change of clothes?" Sarah asks, grinning.

"That'd be nice, if you don't mind." I grimace at the floor, sending them both an apologetic gaze. "Sorry for getting your floors wet."

Sarah waves me off. "Don't worry about it, sweetie. I think you left some spare things here awhile ago. They're probably in the guest room."

I nod, hurrying away from them and into the room down the hallway. For the second time today, I change my attire, slipping into an extra large t-shirt (my dad's old one) and some pajama shorts, refusing to look down at my scar-filled legs (I pray Sarah and Will do the same). I throw my soaked hair up into a tangled bun, wiping down my face in the bathroom, along with my other limbs, and when I get back in the living room, Sarah has changed into her own uniform for work.

Will is cleaning up the water. "Goodness, Ellie. I didn't know a girl your size could carry so much water," he says, chuckling.

I grin despite myself. "It's the hair," I tell him with a puff of laughter.

"That mane is too thick for it's own good." He laughs and I feel some of the cold from earlier melt away.

Will pulls Annabelle from her playpen when he's done mopping up the water (I try not to feel too guilty about making him do it), and takes a seat beside Sarah on the couch. I sit on the recliner in the corner, curling up on it. Water from my hair drips onto my face.

"When do you leave for work?" Will asks Sarah.

She frowns. "In about ten minutes. I don't want to get stuck in traffic."

"Don't look so sad. I'll still be here when you're home, you know?" Will pulls her into his side, placing a kiss on her head. I look away, feeling like an intruder on an intimate moment.

"I know," Sarah says, "but if I would have known you'd be home today, I would have taken the day off. It's been so long since we've had a meal together."

"How about tomorrow we make it a family day? We can wake up together, cook breakfast, lunch and dinner together. And then go to sleep together."

"William, you oaf."

Sarah laughs. Baby Annabelle coos. I pick at a random thread on my shirt, thoughts wandering. The pain from running earlier is starting to catch up with me. Sharp pain shoots up my back every other second and I grimace, knowing it's my fault for not exercising everyday like I'm supposed to.

(By exercise, I mean running and all that sweaty jazz because Dr. Johnson that walking--while it might be a form of exercise--is not something that works the body's muscles, especially if your body is accustomed to it.)

(I think she just secretly enjoys seeing me suffer, but whatever.)

When Sarah leaves ten minutes later on the dot, the sun is peaking in through the living room windows, a sign that the storm has passed. I feel my body relax and I stare at the television that's not on. Annabelle is still cooing in Will's arm and the sound is like music to my ears.

Will ruins it, of course. "So, Ellie," he starts. I turn to look at him. "Why are you so distressed?"

I shrug, pulling my knees up to my chest and resting my head on them. Will gives me a look that says he doesn't believe me. I bite my lip, certain that he must know. He has to know. Him and Dad are best friends and my brother was like a son to him and he has to know.

He has to because I won't tell him.

Can't tell him.

When I remain silent, Will's eyes soften in something like understanding and then he's frowning at me, a deep sorrowful glint in his dark brown eyes as he stares at me. The scar on my face suddenly feels like it's burning.

"Ellie," he says with this knowing tone. "Ellie, I'm sorry." I see his eyes flit to the scar on my cheek. I want to turn away but his eyes hold me in place. "I'm sorry about what happened to Theodore. About what happened to you."

I nod, gulping. It's been so long since I've heard anyone use his fill name and my throat constricts at the sound of it. Longing and despair replace the contentedness that I had been feeling earlier and my eyes water unintentionally. I look away from Will.

"Oh, god, don't cry!" he exclaims in a panicked voice. "Eleanor, please don't cry! Your mom and Sarah will kill me if I make you cry."

I heave a weak laugh at that, sending him a minuscule grin. "M'not crying, Will. No one's going to maim you. Calm down."

"Thank heavens." He dramatically places a hand over his chest with a too loud sigh escaping his lips. I roll my eyes at him, lips quirking.

"For someone who's in the military, you're awfully scared of mundane things," I tease, feeling some of the heaviness life up.

"Mund--Mundane things?!" Will yelps, cradling Annabelle to him. "Ellie, we're talking about the two women who made three sets of parents cry because some assholes pushed you down in the playground! That's six people! Six grown adults crying in broad daylight because of angry moms! I'd rather not get castrated, thanks."

And that emits a genuine laugh out of me. It feels rusty and a little weak, but it's genuine and my eyes crinkle shut. Will seems relieved that he got me to do something besides cry.

"You've always been a wimp, Uncle," I tell him.

He huffs. "I am not a wimp, Eleanor Jane! You take that back!"

"Nah."

Will is outraged. "Those women have corrupted you. Corrupted. You used to be the sweetest little thing and now look at you. You're the devil's spawn."

"Ouch," I say. "Really hurt me with that one."

"Shut up," he grumbles, leaning back on the couch and throwing Annabelle in the air. The baby yelps and hollers in excitement, clapping her chubby hands together when he catches her with a laugh. "How are you?" He tries to remain nonchalant but I can see that he's really curious about the answer.

"I'm fine," I reply immediately.

Will shoots me a look. "Come on, El. We both know you're not okay. Give it to me straight."

And how can I deny him the truth when he's looking at me with those honest brown eyes that I grew up with. I remember telling him everything when I was younger. There was something about him that made me automatically trust him, made me want to seek him out and share every little secret of this universe that I could. Perhaps it was the way he holds himself, or the way he speaks, so solid and earnestly, but I find myself opening up to him on more than one occasion.

"I'm managing," I tell him honestly. "It's hard, sometimes, but it's getting better. Day by day. I'm just trying to take it slow."

Will nods. "I get that. You deserve all the time you need, El. Going through something as traumatic as that--well, I know it wasn't a fun experience."

"Yeah," I swallow, avert my gaze, head hurting, "it wasn't a cup of tea, I'll tell you that."

"Can I--?" Will hesitates, bites his lip. "Can I ask what happened?"

"I don't--I don't remember, Uncle Will."

And I feel like crying again because it's true and I hate that's it true. Hate that I can't remember anything from that day except for skin stained crimson and cold, lifeless eyes. Whenever I try to recall the memory, a sharp pain vibrates my head, makes me see stars and I want to scream every time.

"What do you mean you don't remember?"

I shake the pain away from my head. "The doctor, he asked me what happened that day and when I tried to remember the events that occurred, there was this sharp pain in my head, a hissing in my ears and I couldn't say anything because I was crying so bad. After my failed attempt at bring the memory to mind, he informed me that it was a car accident, that we flipped the truck during a collision caused by a drunk driver. He said I had suffered from major head trauma, that I likely had a mild case of amnesia--mild because I remembered everything but the accident--and that the events would rush back soon enough.

"But they haven't and it's almost been a year and every freaking time I think about it, my head sears and I hear the same hissing and I still can't trigger the memories. Nothing has helped me. Dr. Henderson thinks it's because I don't want to remember, but I dunno."

My eyes are moist after I finish speaking, my face scrunched up in mute pain as my head pounds. Will nods his head in understanding, processing the information.

"Maybe you have remembered it but your brain just hasn't processed it," Will informs me. "Like, a dream or something. Have you had any nightmares?"

I nod, thinking back to the recurring one I've had for months now. The one with blank eyes and endless voids. Firm hands encasing me in safety as I plummet to my doom. Eyes as blue as a clear sky, comforting and reassuring. Nothing that could help me. I don't even understand what half of it means.

"What happens in your nightmares, El?" Will asks like he's afraid of the answer.

"The same thing," I say, swallowing. "I watch him die. Over and over again."

He takes in a deep breath and, before he can say anything else, Annabelle starts crying loudly. I wonder if it's because the tension in the room has gotten worse, dark. Will tries to console her but it doesn't work. She continues wailing loudly. I hesitantly offer my arms to him.

"I can take her," I tell him.

"You sure?" he questions uncertainly. I don't know if it's from the fact that he's just gotten to hold his baby in his arms for the first time in a long time or the fact that he probably thinks I'm too emotionally unstable to hold a baby.

I nod.

"Alright, then." He hands her over to me.

Annabelle has tears streaming down her face and her deep brown eyes are sad as she wails on. I cradle her in my arms and rock her back and forth, shushing her cries, humming a tune that Mom used to use on me when I was a child. I close my eyes and focus on the child in my arms, allow myself to relax, to help her relax and soon enough, her cries subside into small hiccups.

"I want to know your secrets," Will says in amazement.

I chuckle. "There is none. You just get used to handling her." When he looks crestfallen, I hold her back out to him. "Don't worry, Will. She'll know you in no time, if that's what you're worried about."

"It's not," he denies, but I can see the relief on his face when Annabelle reaches for his cheeks.

My lips twitch.

The conversation from before is forgotten and I feel a sense of relief as I allow myself to curl up on the chair. I know, soon enough, that I'll probably have to return to my own house; William is here, therefore I am not needed for babysitting tonight. But I truly do not wish to see my dad at the moment, so I teeter on the idea of asking Will to sleep over tonight.

I open my mouth to speak, to force the words out, but the front door is slamming open before I can even take a breath.

Dad stands at the threshold, looking annoyed and put out as he stares at Will. Will perks up instantly, handing Annabelle over to me.

"What is it, Owen?"

Dad grimaces like he doesn't want to open his mouth. Like saying it is too much trouble than what it's worth.

"We're needed at the base," he says regretfully.

Will sighs, but nods like he understands. He stands up instantly, kissing both myself and Annabelle on the forehead. "She's all yours," he tells me. "Take care of her, kid."

"I will," I respond, sitting up and letting my feet touch the ground. My back aches painfully as I do so.

"I'll be back soon," he informs me, handing me a card. "Get whatever you want. It's on me."