I should be done.
But I’m not.
I’m a glutton for punishment.
And I love her.
I get up and walk across our tiny room with posters of Derek Jeter and pinup girls hanging on the drab white walls.
I snatch my phone, glance at Sean, then reluctantly text back:
Our spot 2 hours?
I wait for a response.
And wait.
And wait.
She would fucking torture me.
Finally:
See you then. <3
That little heartmakes me and breaks me all at the same time.
Fuck.
I take a quick shower and get dressed. I check on Sean, and then go on a hunt to find my car keys. I finally find them in the pair of pants I was wearing Saturday night.
I walk into the hallway and peek into my mother’s room. She’s up. I make my way into the kitchen to find her in her usual spot, sitting at the tiny table with a cigarette in her mouth and a bottle of Jack Daniels a quarter of the way gone.
Brown liquor. Never a good sign.
“Going somewhere?”
“Yeah, out,” I tell her.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Her tone is abrasive.
“I need to go see someone.”
She looks up at me, tanked. Not that that’s anything unusual, but when she drinks Jack, she gets violent. Like, abusively violent. I keep a safe distance in the doorway of the kitchen.
“You’re going to see your little whore, while your brother is inside half dead.”
I compulsively chew the inside of my cheek.Don’t lose your shit. Don’t lose your shit.
“Sean’s sleeping,” I grind out. “And if you’re so concerned about him, why don’t you go and stay with him for a while?”
My mother doesn’t like that answer one bit. She glares at me with bloodshot eyes and a menacing scowl.
This.
Happens.
Every.