Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
I’m walking away from the house.
Down the road.
Phone back to my ear, I hear the automated voice replay my options. “…this call may be monitored or recorded. To accept the charges for this call, press one or say yes. To refuse this call, hang up. To hear a rate quote, press two. This call is from an inmate telephone system…”
I can’t think of anyone else who’d call me from prison right now, other than my mom. Uncle Scottie might, if he wants something bad enough.
It could be him.
It could be a cousin or uncle who just got locked up for assault, kidnapping, and possession of meth and couldn’t post bail. They’re all stuck in jail, waiting for the hearing.
Might be one of them.
I can’t remember the last time my mom called. Somehow, though, she makes the most sense.
“Yeah,” I tell the automated voice.
Put me through.
It rings and clicks, connecting.
“Hi, baby,” my mom says, and I skid to a stop in the middle of the road. Snow-capped spruces border either side.
I stare at the rustling trees in the distance. My hair whips with the breeze, and I run my fingers through the strands. The cold barely touches me.
“Hey.”
“…you’ve been good?” she asks tentatively, and I almost hear her adjusting the phone against her ear.
“Been good, yeah. You?”
“I’m doing really well here. Really well.” Her voice sounds lighter than I remember. Less shaky. “Hey, your dad’s been stopping by to visit, and he said you two are getting along better than ever.”
I rub at the back of my head. “You’ve been seeing him a lot?”
“Two or three times a week.”
I grimace. “You think that’s such a good idea?” They’re terrible together. I’ve always hoped they’d split apart, and not just one of those one-month arguments where my dad has to go crash on a cousin’s lumpy sofa.
“Come on, baby.” I hear the sharpness in her voice. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not like how it was. Okay? He’s not using. He’s been here for me. I’m clean. I’ve been clean. We love each other, and you know how much we love you?”
I fixate on one thing. “You’ve been clean?”
“Yeah.” I hear her smile. “Yeah, it’s been great. I feel like a whole new person. I can’t wait to get out, and they’re saying it might be earlier. I’ve been keeping my head down, staying out of trouble. You’d be proud of me.”
I’ve clung to so much hope that my parents would turn a new leaf.
That they would change.
Really, change.
Each time they took that hope, balled it up, and lit it on fire. What’s left is a thick smoke-cloud of doubt.
So I’ve been here before.
Been down this road several times.
When I was sixteen and she first got thrown in. When I was twenty and she first got out.
When I was twenty-one and she got thrown back in. When I was twenty-two and she got back out.
When I was twenty-four and she got thrown back in. Same year, she got out.
And then when I was twenty-six and on a tour bus heading across the country, she got thrown back in again.
This familiar road leads to a jagged cliff. Or a dead-end. Or worse, a U-turn. ‘Cause I’d rather run into a wall than face the same thing over and over and over again. At least with the wall, you hit it once and then the pain doesn’t come back for more.
But something might be wrong with me, because in the back of my head, I’m still thinking, What if it’s different this time? What if this really is it?
It worked out for Luna’s parents. Didn’t it? Why can’t good things happen to mine?
Hope.
Luna has said I possess a good amount, much more than her, but I worry about having too much faith. Where hope feels more like a beautiful bastard, yanking me around.
But I can’t lose it.
Hope.
I don’t know how. Hope for a better life has been an underlying force in mine.
On the phone, I take too long to respond to my mom. She’s already telling me, “I’d like to see you…I know you don’t like coming around anymore—”
“It’s not that—”
“I get it,” she says quickly with more understanding than I’m used to hearing. “Really, you don’t need to explain yourself. I haven’t been the best mom, but that’ll change when I get out of here. You know that?”
My eyes burn as I restrain emotion. “Dad said somethin’ about you wanting to get into a recovery program.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she exhales. “I’m glad he told you about that. I, um…I gotta find the cash, but I’ll figure it out.”
I can help with that. The words rest on the edge of my tongue. For so many reasons, I shouldn’t open that door. It took me forever to nail it shut.
I end up saying, “Scottie’s getting my whole paycheck, so…” It’s not true anymore. Loren Hale is paying him off, but my family still thinks the money is coming from me.