Chapter 15 – Stranded Amongst Strangers
The bass thumped through the floor like a second heartbeat—louder, heavier, out of sync with her own.
Lily stood near the kitchen doorway, a plastic cup sweating in her hand, trying not to flinch every time a shoulder brushed hers. The air reeked of cheap vodka, sweat, and perfume that didn’t belong to the bodies wearing it.
She hadn’t wanted to come. But she needed to.
Just a distraction, she’d told her friend. I’ll only stay a little while.
A lie. But distraction sounded better than loneliness. Better than silence after her father’s voice had ripped through her hours earlier.
Now, surrounded by strangers and swallowed in noise, she felt more alone than ever.
“Back soon,” her friend had called ten minutes ago, already drifting into the throng, laughing at something too loud, too crude. Lily hadn’t followed.
Her drink was still half full. She hadn’t taken more than a sip or two—enough to sting her throat, not enough to dull the knot in her chest.
She slipped toward the back of the house, sliding open the glass door. Night air slapped against her skin, cool and damp, tinged with wet leaves and cigarette smoke. The music dulled with the door shut behind her, but the bass still pulsed in her bones. She wrapped her arms around herself, wishing she could vanish into the dark.
Instinctively, she reached inside for her coat- fingers searching for her keys—something small, familiar, grounding. Her fingers brushed the zipper. She checked the pockets.
Nothing.
She frowned, tried again.
Coat pockets. Jeans. Even under the crumpled napkin in her cup hand.
Her chest hollowed.
No wallet. No keys.
Her breath came quick, too shallow. She tried to slow it, but panic was already uncoiling, hot and sharp. She checked again, harder this time, the frantic pat-down of someone who knew the truth but couldn’t bear it.
It has to be here. It has to be.
She pushed back through the crowd, retracing her steps. The kitchen. The hallway. The spot by the door where she’d stood earlier.
Nothing.
Her pulse pounded in her ears. She checked the floor, scanned the counters, even shoved aside a pile of empty cups.
Still nothing.
Her throat closed. The music blurred into noise, and every breath felt thinner than the last. Her legs gave slightly, and she sank onto the low brick wall at the edge of the yard. People pushed past without seeing her—laughing, shouting, red cups sloshing, the smell of smoke clinging to their clothes.
No one noticed her stillness.
No one noticed her chest heaving.
She looked down at her phone.
4% battery.
The screen lit too bright in the dark.
She blinked hard, scrolled through her contacts, thumb hesitating. Her finger hovered over one name. Dad.
Her thumb almost pressed it. Almost.
But then she heard him again—earlier, in the lobby, his voice cutting her down.
You’re not strong enough to do this on your own. Come home before you ruin your life.
You’re too Weak.
Her stomach turned. Her thumb slid away.
She couldn’t call him. Not even as a last resort.
And then she saw it.
Blake.
Three months since the accident. Since his hand on her shoulder, his voice calm where hers had broken and the way she felt seen but not judged.
She hadn’t reached out. Not once. Until now.
Her thumb hovered over the message field. Her chest tightened.
What would he think?
That she was using him, again?
That she’d disappeared and now resurfaced only because she was desperate?
She typed. I need help. Deleted it.
But then she remembered his low steady voice as they said goodbye and he pressed his business card into her palm. The way his eyes had held hers, unshaken, as he said, “If you ever need help. Any time,” like he already knew she would need this moment.
She rewrote it.
I need help. Please.
Her thumb lingered over send. Her breath shuddered. This felt like a line she couldn’t uncross.
Then she pressed it.
The message flicked away, a blue bubble on the screen. Out of her hands.
Lily closed her eyes, clutching the phone against her chest, listening to the bass rattle the glass doors behind her. She didn’t know if he would answer.