Mom clasps her chest and gasps, as if someone spit in her face. “That doesn’t sound like my Kayden,” she says, shaking her head.
It sounds exactly like Kayden, but Mom is true ride or die, family first, and you’ve gotta love her for it. Love the acting.
“Besides,” she says, “he’s been here all night.” She tips her head toward the sounds of enemy fire.
Sheriff Ryan nods. No way he buys the lie, but he has to respect it. “I’m only here to say that it might be best if the kids stay away from The Hollow, at least for now. Despite new ownership, it is still private property and an active construction site. Could be dangerous.”
“Well, thank you for your concern,” she says sweetly—you catch more flies with honey. “Honestly, Sheriff, what would we do without you? You sure you don’t want to come in? I’m happy to set out some snacks.”
“Not tonight,” he says, putting the hat back on his head. “I best be on my way.”
Mom shuts the door, gives the sheriff enough time to leave the porch, then she turns and makes a beeline for the media room. She swings the door open, and we are immersed in Kayden’s war, the surround sound and subwoofers rat-tat-tatting, machine-gunning bullets.
“Turn that shit off.”
The game is loud, but Mom’s louder. Kayden jolts, whips his head around. His little commando dude on the screen gets snipedout of existence. He rolls his eyes, pushes a button on the controller to pause the game. That’s not good enough. Mom marches to the screen, reaching deep into the entertainment center to pull the cords out of the back of the Xbox. The room goes dark, but there’s enough light from the doorway to see her turn and face Kayden, arms crossed. Now there is just the sound of Mom rat-tat-tatting the toe of her high heel on the hardwood floor.
“Sheriff just came by.”
Kayden gets up, brushing past her and into the foyer. Mom follows him, and I follow her.
“What in the hell is this business about you getting into it with Cat Dennis? That woman will be telling half the town by morning. What iswrongwith you?”
Mom’s been asking that question since he was a little boy. I’d be all dressed and ready to go, and Mom would tell him to put on his shoes, and it would be like that one instruction flipped a switch in his toddler brain, likefuck shoes, you know? And he’d go red-faced, refusing to breathe, kicking Mom’s shins. She’d grab him by both arms, shaking him, screaming in his face:What is wrong with you?
I used to think her question was fair. Whatwaswrong with him? Why couldn’t he just behave?
But sometimes, now, when I pass the photo of Kayden at three, wearing cowboy boots and a pull-up, a grin taking up half his face, my heart cracks a little. Because he was so small. And because hewouldput on his shoes, actually, if you gave him the time to get the toe seams on his socks just right. And maybe there hadn’t been anything wrong with him at all.
Back then, Kayden couldn’t get attention from Mom in the ways that I could. So he found other ways. Now, they are trapped in a well-worn groove. It’s like Mom says:Motivation fades. Habits don’t.
Kayden’s fists are clenched at his side. “Billy and Teddy wanted to float the river like you guys used to do back in high school. That’s all. She was being a bitch.”
Mom levels her eyes at him. If looks could kill, he’d be stone-cold dead.
Then, like pulling the pin from a grenade, he adds, “A bitch just like you.”
Mom closes the distance between them. My money’s on her merking him right where he stands. She might actually slap him.
“You haven’t begun to see what kind of bitch I can be, young man.”
Kayden starts climbing the steps. He’s halfway to the second floor before Mom says the words she knows will stop him in his tracks.
“Your father is going to hear about this.”
She’s bullshitting. At least, I think she is. Mom always hides Kayden’s shenanigans from Dad, because his constant screwups are a particular kind of thorn in Dad’s ass. With his shitty grades and worse behavior, Kayden would already be in military school if Mom hadn’t begged Dad not to send him off.
He peers over his shoulder now, down at her, calling her bluff. “Go ahead. Fucking tell him.” Then he bolts up the remaining steps, and his bedroom door slams shut.
Mom heads back to the living room, downing the rest of her chardonnay in one swallow. “Calling the sheriff,” she says with derision. “Can you believe that?” She moves to the kitchen, pulling champagne bottles from the wine fridge and lining them up on the counter. “She’ll regret it,” she mutters.
Cat just fed sweet Olivia to the wolves. I don’t know what exactly my mother is planning.
But it isn’t good.
CHAPTER NINETEENINGRID
I’m pressed against the back door of Travis’s pickup, the door handle digging into the small of my back. I’ve learned that much about the handsome young man from the bar—his first name—and that he has a firm grip. His palm cups the back of my head, fingers intertwined in my hair so he can yank it back, tip my face. So he can take my mouth with his.