The trailer is empty when I arrive.

I expected to find Hank on the sofa, a beer in his hand and a cigarette dangling out of his mouth, but the only thing here to greet me is the leftover stench of stale tobacco.

I tiptoe toward my old bedroom. Shockingly, it hasn't been touched since I left. I figured Hank would have raided it in search of booze or cash, but not a single book is out of place.

Sitting on my bed, I pick up my faded copy of Fahrenheit 451. Something falls out—a sheet of lined notebook paper. I unfold the parchment and find a message in ink.

I got worried when I didn't see you after school. I figured you were upset and thought chocolate might make you feel better. See you at school tomorrow.

- Damian

Tears cascade down my cheeks, landing on the note and blurring the words together. I refold the sheet and stick it back into the book, unsure why I kept it after all this time. He wrote that for me three years ago, just after Ada was sent away.

So much has happened since then. We've been to hell and back, yet here we are, still attached at the hip. The only difference now is we've seen each other naked.

No, scratch that. That isn't the only difference. Now we're in love. Madly, deeply, irreversibly in love.

And I'm an idiot for allowing the mere sight of him and Jessica together to make me doubt that.

God, what am I doing here? Clutching the book in my hand, I exit my childhood bedroom, vowing to never return to this loveless place.

Four walls might make a house, but not a home.

As I approach the front door, I hear the all too familiar shuffling of feet. Frozen in place, I watch as the door swings open, revealing Hank in all of his drunken glory.

He blinks, his hazel eyes wide as he stares me up and down, clearly just as surprised as I am.

"Hi." The word leaves my mouth as a whisper. I glance down; my hands are shaking like branches in the wind.

His lips spread into a convoluted smirk that chills me to my core. "You picked the wrong day to come here," he hisses.

"I'm leaving now."

"You sure 'bout that?"

"Hank, please." My fingers find the scar on the back of my head, and my thoughts go back to Christmas Day. It's morbidly ironic that he left me for dead in a graveyard. It's seriously screwed up that he left me for dead at all.

"I just spent that past few hours with Heather Jermain," he tells me with an angry shake of his head. "My god, what a bitch. Thinks she's hot shit because she's a lawyer."

Before I can ask why he was with Jessica's aunt, he goes on, "She thinks I killed her brother and sister-in-law. Any idea who could've put a thought like that in her nosy little head?"

I swallow the lump in my throat. "I don't know, Hank."

"So my good-for-nothing mother didn't write you a letter?"

My jaw drops. "Wh-what?"

"I fucking knew it." He moves closer, and I back up, trapping myself between him and the wall. "You snitched on your own blood. What kind of daughter are you?"

I have a dozen questions, but they all disappear as soon as I hear his.

What kind of daughter am I?

Blood boiling, I place my hands on his chest and shove him as hard as I can. He stumbles in reverse, regaining his balance just before he collides with the refrigerator.

"What kind of daughter am I? What kind of father are you?" I demand.

He knits his brows together. "'Scuse me?"

"You fractured my skull and then left me to die!" I exclaim, my eyes brimming with tears.

"Nah, you fell," he brushes me off.

"You still left me there!"

"I didn't know you were—"

"You didn't know I was what, Hank? Didn't know I was on death's door? Didn't know I would have to blow my entire college savings on medical bills?"

He shrugs his shoulders, unsympathetic as ever, and says, "You're a Dodds. We don't go to college."

I want to tell him that I'm one of the brightest minds in this dull town. That I deserve a higher education. That even though I share his last name, I'm nothing like him.

But I remain silent, afraid if I lose my composure, I'll never get it back.

"Y'know," Hank prattles on, "I told Maria I never wanted no rugrats. I made myself pretty god damn clear, but she went and got herself pregnant, anyway."

"It takes two to tango."

"Well, I ain't sure I was the only one she was tangoing with."

My eyes widen, and I don't know whether to cry or let out a sigh of relief. "What are you talking about, Hank?"

"I don't know nothin' 'bout genetics and DNA and shit," he says, "but I'm pretty sure you can't make babies when you're shootin' blanks."

"You're... you're sterile?"

"Apparently."

"Are you certain?"

"Had a bad case of chlamydia as a teen. It made my chances of being a dad pretty slim."

Cringing, I stare at the man in front of me. Since I was a child, he's made my life a nightmare. Is this why? Deep down, has he assumed all along that I wasn't his?

"I want a DNA test," I declare. "If you're not my father, then—"

"Then what?" he cuts in. "Doesn't matter at this point. You're eighteen."

"I'd still like the truth."

"I ain't taking no test."

"It's a cheek swab!" I shout. "You don't even have to get off the couch!"

"My cheeks won't be touched by no—"

"Just take the damn test!"

He glares at me, shaking his head in protest. I should have known he wouldn't agree. My whole life, he's never given me anything I wanted.

"Hank." I inch toward him, my jaw clenched, fists balled. "You. Will take. The fucking. Test."

Standing up straight, he nods his head back and forth in a mechanical motion before saying, "Okay, I'll take the test."

Before I have time to reply, he dashes into the tiny bathroom. Seconds later, he returns with a damp Q-tip and hands it to me.

"Eww, what is—?"

"A cheek swab," he answers, "for the DNA test."

And then, as if by the flick of a switch, his acquiescence falters. He closes then slowly opens his eyes, like he's waking from a deep slumber.

Staring at the Q-tip, I say, "Thanks for everything, Hank."

Then I leave this god forsaken trailer for the last time.

<><><><><><>

"Damian!" I call out, racing to his bedroom. "Damian, you'll never believe what—"

The air is sucked from my lungs before I can finish my sentence. Damian's arms wrap me in a tight embrace, making me gasp for my next breath.

"Damian, I need oxygen," I mumble, giggling against his chest.

Cupping my face in his hands, he pulls away ever so slightly and looks into my eyes, his blue orbs full of concern. "Layla, where have you been?"

"I went for a walk."

"A walk? You've been gone for hours."

Annoyance rises in my chest when I think about whom he spent his afternoon with, but I swallow my irritation and take the plastic-wrapped cotton swab out of my coat pocket. "I paid Hank a visit. He had some... interesting news."

Damian's face pales. "You saw Hank? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I promise."

He seems to believe me. Glancing down, he asks, "Did he tell you about Heather?"

"We'll get to that," I say, not wishing to discuss the Jermains right now. "Hank admitted that my mother was stepping out on him, so there's a chance...." I pause, an elated grin tugging at my lips. "There's a chance he isn't my dad, Damian. He and I might not be related at all."

"Oh, my god." My best friend's eyes turn into saucers. "How do you... how do you feel about that?"

"Relieved, mostly."

"Why's that?"

"Because," I begin, "my whole life, I assumed I was destined to drink myself to death in this shitty little town. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it's hard not to take your parents as an example, you know? But hearing him say that he didn't think I was his... well, it kind of set me free. I'm not bound to end up like him, and maybe my real father is a stand-up guy. Maybe he's always wanted a daughter and will welcome me into his life with open arms."

Damian's lips curl into a frown. "Layla," he whispers, "I know how badly you want this to be true, but what if it isn't?"

I deflate like a popped balloon. "Wh-what do you mean? Why would you say that?"

"Remember last year? All the drama with the Bishops and your grandmother?" he reminds me, and I nod my head. "Bradley said you were identical to your Aunt Cynthia, and if you weren't actually related to her, then—"

"Then I probably wouldn't be her clone," I finish, the realization hitting me like a blow to the stomach. "Wow, that didn't even cross my mind."

He sits down on the bed and pulls me onto his lap, kissing me with enough tenderness to thaw the North Pole. "You got a DNA sample, right? We'll still send it in for testing, just to be sure. I just don't want you to get your hopes up only to be let down."

"Thank you," I murmur, too downcast to say anything else.

We snuggle in his bed for a while. I don't cry, but I allow him to hold me against his chest and run his fingers through my hair. I take comfort in his intoxicating smell, in his touch, in his warmth. He is my closest friend, my one true confidant, and the absolute love of my life.

An hour passes before he finally shifts beneath me. He asks if I'm hungry, and I nod my head, certain that even if I said no, he'd make me eat, anyway.

As I follow him to the kitchen, thoughts of Jessica Jermain whirl around in my head. I want to ask about their afternoon together, and how her aunt found out about Margo's letter, but the voices in my head are silenced when he pulls a white bakery box out of the fridge.

"What's this?" I inquire, my curiosity piqued.

"It's for you." Grinning, he props the box on his palm and uses his other hand to lift it open.

"Damian...." My heart pounds against my ribcage as I stare at the elegant cake. Purple and pink roses decorate the border, and a simple buttercream frosting covers the center and edges.

In perfect cursive, the words 'Will you go to prom with me?' are written in the middle of the edible masterpiece.

"Oh, my god." I look up at him and smile. "It's beautiful, Damian."

"My mom helped me pick it out."

"She has excellent taste in cakes." Then, realizing the hidden meaning behind his confession, I ask, "You told her about us?"

He nods his head. "I did, and I don't think I've ever seen her so happy."

Beaming, I close the box and place it on the table before wrapping my arms around his neck. My lips meet his in a kiss that I hope gives him the answer to his question.

"So... you'll go with me?" His eyes glisten with hope, and I can't help but laugh.

"Yes, Damian! I'll go to prom with you!" I exclaim, leaping into his arms.

He holds me against him, lifting me off the ground and then spinning me around. When he places me back on my feet, his lips curl into a playful grin. "Good," he says, "because I really didn't want to have to eat that whole cake by myself."

A/N:
Thanks so much for 6K! You guys are the best. Ily ❤️
So... who's excited for prommm? 🤩