Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
“I…” Her voice cracks and she sniffles.
I’m not buying it. My mother can cry on command. And trust me, she takes great advantage of this skill. My entire childhood, I watched her use tears to wrap her revolving door of boyfriends around her little finger. That shit works on my brother, too. But it’s never worked on me. I’ve always seen right through her damsel-in-distress act.
“Mom, seriously,” I say irritably. “Tell me why you called or I’m hanging up.”
“I called to invite you to dinner on Sunday.”
I nearly drop the phone. Um. What the fuck kind of game is she playing at now? “Dinner,” I echo, unable to keep the suspicion from my voice.
“Yes, dinner.” She pauses. “We have some news.”
“What news? And who’s ‘we?’”
“You’ll find out at dinner,” she says stubbornly.
“Uh-huh. And will Joe be at this dinner?” Just uttering my older brother’s name sends an eddy of sickness to my gut.
Joe is the reason I can’t live at home. A year ago he was paroled from prison, where he served three years for felony burglary. Upon his release, he asked my mother if he could come back home. And naturally she said yes. “I can’t wait to be a family again,” were her exact words.
Unfortunately, being a family meant looking the other way while my brother resumed his illegal activities. And it’s a two-bedroom house, so there was literally no way of escaping Joe and his lowlife friends.
The second month Joe was home, I found some empty tubes of a topical anesthetic in the kitchen trashcan. “No idea what that is,” Joe had insisted. “Maybe Mom is having some kinda pain.”
But I know a liar when I meet one. With a little help from Dr. Google I learned that lidocaine is frequently used to cut cocaine and convince buyers that the product is high quality. I confronted him. He started gaslighting me.
And then I found the gun under his mattress. Loaded. Not only is that dangerous, it’s a blatant parole violation. “It’s not mine,” he’d said. “Bix left it there. I didn’t know.”
“He didn’t know,” my mother had echoed. She only believes what she wants.
“You can’t stay here,” I’d snapped. “Get your shit and go.”
“Make me.”
All Mom added to the situation was her tears.
So the person who eventually left was me. I wasn’t going to share a room with someone who will undoubtedly be re-arrested and jailed again. In fact, I’m astonished he’s lasted a year.
I haven’t seen Joe since July, when Mom guilted me into coming to a “family barbecue” where her latest boyfriend made some hotdogs and then burned them. Oh, and I was asked to bring the beer. Of course I was.
“Please come to dinner,” my mother begs me now. “You don’t even have to bring anything.”
Lucky me. “You still didn’t say—will Joe be there?”
“Of course Joey will be there. It’s his home.”
I swallow a tired sigh. “Does he know you’re inviting me?”
“It was his idea.”
Where I was suspicious before, I’m now in full-blown distrust mode. It was Joe’s idea to invite me over?
Yeah. I’d like to avoid a Red Wedding situation, thank you very much.
“Sorry, I’m busy on Sunday,” I tell her. “If you want to share your big news now, I’m all ears, otherwise I need to get going.”
“Luke,” she whines.
“Okay, gotta go, Ma. Talk later.”
We both know we won’t be talking later.
As I drop my phone on the milk crate that doubles as a nightstand, my entire body feels weary. I know plenty of people have screwed-up families, but mine is something else. An older brother who will drag me down with him if I let him. A deadbeat dad I haven’t seen since I was two. A drama-queen mom who would probably marry her eldest son if society didn’t frown upon it. I’m not even joking here—Mom’s love for Joey borders on…creepy.
I suppose I should consider myself lucky that her love for me is nonexistent?
Go me.
Footsteps sound beyond my door, and I stiffen instinctively. No matter how long I’ve lived at Alpha Delt, I still don’t feel like I belong here.
Says the man running for president.
Fuck. What am I getting myself into?
A blast of music echoes through the little hallway between our rooms. Aerosmith’s “Sweet Emotion.” Wonderful. Mr. Jockface is home. And it’s time for his pre-dinner workout.
I glance at the stack of textbooks on my desk, while Steven Tyler’s shrill voice pours out of Keaton’s room. If I had the money, I’d invest in an expensive pair of noise-cancelling headphones.
Unfortunately, I don’t have the money.
I’m not in the best of moods when I arrive for my shift a few hours later. My paper isn’t done, and I wasn’t able to catch a minute of shut-eye thanks to Hayworth. I get that he’s a football player, but Jesus fuck, how many hours of daily weightlifting do those meatheads require?