The Coincidence of Callie and Kayden

at all cost, because I can’t breathe very well in them. I move up to the bottom step tentatively, hoping to disappear into the crowd unnoticed, find my brother, and get the hell out of here.
     
    “Don’t fucking tell me it was an accident!” The voice rises, blazing with incomprehensible rage. There’s a loud bang and then a crack, like bones splitting into pieces. Instinctively I whirl around just in time to see Mr. Owens smash his fist into Kayden’s face. The crack makes my gut churn. He hits him again and again, not stopping even when Kayden crumples to the ground. “Liars get punished Kayden.”
     
    I wait for Kayden to get back up, but he stays unmoving not even bothering to cover his face with his arms. His father kicks him in the stomach, in the face, his movements harder, showing no sign of an approaching end.
     
    I react without thinking, a desire to save him burning so fiercely it washes all doubts from my mind. I run across the grass and through the leaves blowing in the air without a plan other than to interrupt. When I reach them, I’m shaking and verging toward shock as it becomes clear the situation is larger than my mind originally grasped.
     
    Mr. Owens’ knuckles are gashed and blood drips onto the cement in front of the pool house. Kayden is on the ground, his cheekbone cut open like a crack in the bark of a tree. His eye is swollen shut, his lip is ruptured, and there is blood all over his face.
     
    Their eyes move to me and I quickly point over my shoulder with a very unsteady finger.  “There was someone looking for you in the kitchen,” I say to Mr. Owens, thankful that for once my voice maintains steadiness. “They needed help with something… I can’t remember what though.”
     
    His sharp gaze pierces into me and I cower back at the anger and powerlessness in his eyes, like his rage controls him. “Who the hell are you?”
     
    “Callie Lawrence,” I say quietly, noting the smell of liquor on his breath.
     
    His gaze travels from my worn shoes to the heavy black jacket with buckles, and finally lands on my hair that barely brushes my chin. I look like a homeless person, but that’s the point. I want to be unnoticed. “Oh, yeah, you're Coach Lawrence’s daughter. I didn’t recognize you in the dark.” He glances down at the blood on his knuckles and then looks back at me. “Listen Callie, I didn’t mean for this to happen. It was an accident.”
     
    I don't do well under pressure so I stand motionless, listening to my heart knock inside my chest. “Okay.”
     
    “I need to go clean up,” he mutters. His gaze bores into me for a brief moment before he stomps across the grass toward the back door with his injured hand clasped beside him.
     
    I focus back on Kayden, releasing a breath trapped in my chest. “Are you okay?”
     
    He cups his hand over his eye, stares at his shoes, and keeps his other hand against his chest, seeming vulnerable, weak, and perplexed. For a second, I picture myself on the ground with bruises and cuts that can only be seen from the inside.
     
    “I’m fine.” His voice is harsh, so I turn toward the house, ready to bolt.
     
    “Why did you do that?”  he calls out through the darkness.
     
    I stop on the line of the grass and turn to meet his eyes. “I did what anyone else would have done.”
     
    The eyebrow above his good eye dips down. “No, you didn’t.”
     
    Kayden and I have gone to school together since we were in kindergarten. Sadly this is the longest conversation we’ve had since about sixth grade when I was deemed the class weirdo. In the middle of the year, I showed up to school with my hair chopped off and wearing clothes that nearly swallowed me.  After that, I lost all my friends. Even when our families have dinner together, Kayden pretends like he doesn’t know me. 
     
    "You did what almost no one would have done." Lowering his hand from his eye, he staggers to his feet and towers over me as he straightens his legs. He is the kind of guy girls have an infatuation for, including me back when I saw guys as something else other than a threat. His brown hair flips at his ears and neck, his usually perfect smile is a bloody mess, and only one of his emerald eyes is visible. “I don’t understand why you did it.”
     
    I scratch at my forehead, my nervous habit when someone is really seeing me. “Well, I couldn’t just walk away. I’d never be able to forgive myself if I did.”
     
    The light