"Get in the car, Loren." His voice was tight, annoyed, probably because he had to repeat himself for a third time.

I didn't want to get into the car with him. He was drunk. That was made clear by his slurred speech and bloodshot eyes. Not that I was doing any better. The fight with Jerrell had sobered me up, but not by much.

That wasn't the first time he had driven drunk. He'd pick me up from dance practice smelling of beer all the time. That was one of the occupational hazards of working at a bar, but he'd been out of work for months.

Mom never knew he'd driven me—or himself—around under the influence of course. He'd swear me to secrecy as we pulled into the driveway, taking one last hit of the cigarette he smoked to mask the smell of alcohol. And I never told her because it'd only lead to a fight. I was so sick of them fighting.

The car jerked to a stop beside me. He was done playing games.

"Get your ass in the car," he bellowed. "I'm tired of repeating myself."

He wasn't into physical discipline—that was Mom's territory—but so much of his personality had changed that I wouldn't be surprised if that did too.

To make things easier on myself I got into the car, regretting it the moment I shut the door. He went on a tirade about my recent behavior. My behavior? How would he know anything about my behavior when he was too busy trying to find the prize at the bottom of the beer can?

I knew that it wasn't his fault that he fell and hit his head, damaging the part of his brain that made him my dad, but is frustrating.

I knew that the rage and the outbursts were due to injury. I couldn't keep giving him passes like Mom, though. Having to tip toe around him was getting tiresome. No more biting my tongue.

If he wanted to talk about behaviors we'd talk about his.

Before I got a chance to speak, something caught my eye. A figure stood in a distance in front of the moving vehicle. The red and gold letterman jacket tipped me off on who it was. Miles.

I tried to yell, but nothing came out. Dad kept driving and Miles just stood there.

Why wasn't he moving?

Why couldn't I say anything?

The car was getting too close with no intention of slowing down. The only thing I could do was squeeze my eyes shut and brace for the impact.

Then Miles called out my name. My eyes opened. Miles's eyes were wide and full of concern as he stared down at me.

I was awake. My heart pounded in my ears as I laid in a puddle of my own sweat. Miles hovering over me only added to my anxiety. I didn't want him to see me like that.

"What happened?"

"I'm fine," I said, replying to a question he hadn't asked. Then, before he could say anything else, I jumped out of bed and ran for the bathroom.

Once I was behind the closed door I sat on the edge of the bathtub and tried to steady my breathing, my hands, everything. Every inch of me felt like it was vibrating.

My sobs weren't so silent in the eerily quiet bathroom, so I turned on the shower to drown them out. I didn't want to hear them and I definitely didn't want Miles to.

I'd had nightmares about the crash plenty of times. They were always the same, exactly how I recalled the actual accident happening. That was the first time the dream had changed.

Why was Miles there? I didn't want him associated with the accident. How was I supposed to face him without picturing him standing, happily, in front of a moving car?

I didn't know how long I'd been sitting there —wiping tears from my face every few seconds, taking deep breaths, trying not to be louder than the running water—but when I opened the bathroom door I was hit with a sweet aroma.

The smell lead me to the kitchen where Miles was bent over, peering into the oven window. Now that I was closer I could identify the smell as peanut butter. There was a jar of it on the counter along with a mixing bowl, some egg shells and a bag of sugar.

"What are you doing?" I croaked, my voice still strained from crying. I cleared my throat as I took a seat at the island.

Miles stood up straight, walking over to the island and leaning his elbows on the surface. "Baking."

"It's," I glanced at the microwave clock, "three in the morning."

"You looked like you could use a cookie," he said, shrugging as he cleared the egg shells off the counter.

He didn't question what happened back in my room and I was thankful for that. I happily accepted the distraction of peanut butter cookies.

"I'm sure we have already made cookies in the pantry," I pointed out.

"Yeah, but fresh cookies are always better," he said and I couldn't disagree. "My dad used to make them for me when I was younger and couldn't get to sleep."

I couldn't picture the pigs-in-a-blanket guzzling man I met a few nights ago doing some so kind.

"He wasn't always a jerk," he informed me, as if he could read my mind. "He's actually not that bad now."

That was laughable. "He embarrassed you in front of a room full of people."

"I'll admit he's a little harsher than he has to be, but he just wants me to get serious about my future," he said, putting the peanut butter and sugar back into the pantry. "If his daughter can't live out the future he worked so hard to give her then I have to."

"Why do you say it like that?" He looked over at me, brow raised in question. "'His daughter.'" That's how he said it that night at the lake too.

"Paul isn't my biological father," he told me and for a second this sadness took over his face. A blink of an eye and it was gone. "Rose and I weren't related by blood either. I didn't know that until after Rose passed, though."

I couldn't even imagine how he felt when he found out. To lose his sister and then have the only father he'd ever known suddenly treat him differently.

"Apparently, the guy who got my mom pregnant skipped the second he found out," he continued. "Then she met my dad—Paul—a month before I was born and decided never to tell me the truth. If I hadn't walked in on them talking on night, I probably still wouldn't know."

He let out a dry laugh, turning away to check on the cookies or to hide whatever emotions were probably on his face.

It was starting to make sense why people kept urging me to open up and talk. Sure, it would be healthy for me, but it'd give them peace of mind as well.

Knowing exactly what made a person you cared about sad or angry or afraid gave you options. How to fix it, make it better or at least shoulder some of the weight. Not knowing and watching them silently suffer made you feel helpless.

That's how I felt and I hated. The idea of anyone feeling that way because of me wasn't the best either. Nikki was right, if I wanted a relationship where we were honest with each other and didn't hide parts of ourselves, then I had to be willing to share as well.

Miles slipped on one of the autumn- themed oven mitts and pulled the pan of cookies from the oven, placing it on the island. The steam that rose from them warmed my face and the delicious scent made my mouth water. My prolonged interest in the treats was just my way of stalling.

He walked around the island, taking a seat on the stool next to me. "The worst part is waiting for them to cool off."

I offered a small smile, still stalling. I just needed to rip off the bandage. "About what happened earlier," I started, tugging at my finger in my lap.

"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"No, I want to," I said. "You looked kind of freaked out. I figured I owed you some type of explanation."

He nodded slightly, waiting for me to go on. There was no turning back now.

"My dad died in a car accident," I told him, the stone wall that kept me from fully giving into a person crumbling away. "And I was in the car with him. That's what the nightmare was about. I've had it before -- more than once. This time it was slightly different. You were there."

His eyes widened, lips parted to say something, but nothing ever came out. How does someone respond to something like that?

"You don't have to say anything," I told him, eyeing the still steaming cookies. "I know how weird it sounds."

His face softened at my confession. Not in the sympathetic way I'd grown tired of seeing, but like was thinking. Going over options—what to say, what to do, how to help.

He didn't have to say or do anything. Just the fact that he knew and was still there was enough.

He cursed under his breath. "What do you think it meant?"

I let out a small laugh. "Why am I even surprised that you believe dreams have deeper meanings?"

"Right, I forgot how closed-minded you can be."

"I'm not," I defended. "I just don't think everything has a meaning." That nightmare was nothing more than a result of my conversation with Nikki.

"Well, I do and I think your subconscious was trying to tell you something."

"That you're insane?" I said, recalling the dream. "You were standing in front of the car with a goofy grin on your face as it came at you. Try to interpret that."

His brow creased as he thought about this. "I don't know," he said, surrendering to the challenge. "But I'm not in your head. Only you would know what it meant."

"I don't think it means anything."

"Humor me."

I let out a sigh, leaning my elbows on the counter. As much as I didn't want to keep replaying my warped dream I did, one last time in an attempt to find the meaning.

What could him waiting to be hit by a car mean? Then it dawned on me.

"You didn't run," I said, looking over at him. "I was afraid that if you found out just how messed up I was you'd run and in the dream you didn't."

"I told you I was done running."

There was more to my story I felt he needed to know before he made any promises.  "Yeah, but—"

"I meant what I said," he assured me, leaning over and kissing my cheek. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

Between Miles's confession and mine, maybe there had been enough sharing for one night. So, I decided not to push it and instead went for a cookie.