Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“You’re so fucking difficult.” I throw my arms around her and yank her against my chest, kissing the top of her head while she pretends to resist. There’s nothing Sloane hates more than showing sincere emotions. The non-violent kind, at least. “I have feelings for you, too.”
Her body softens then, and I catch a glimpse of a shy smile tugging at her lips.
“Promise me you’re going to win,” she says softly. “You can’t leave now.”
I already hate myself for this, and yet I can’t stop those two words from exiting my mouth.
“I promise.”
Chapter 42
Lawson
There must be people walking this decaying rock of garbage and filth who aren’t overcome by pathological apathy when they see their mother’s name on the screen of their phone. Sadly, I can’t relate.
“To what do I owe this intrusion?” I ask politely. I’m between classes, so I’d just stopped off at the dining hall for a drink.
“What? Lawson, it’s Mom.”
Yes, I’d recognize that shrill tone of inadequacy anywhere. “What do you want?”
“It’s loud there. Where are you?”
“It’s three o’clock on a Thursday. I’m at a Raiders game,” I mock. “Where else would I be?” Sipping my drink, I duck out outside and head across campus to the art building.
“Right.” She laughs awkwardly. “You’re at school. Sorry. Ah. Anyway. I’m calling because, well, Jeffrey will be stuck in Hong Kong, so I thought perhaps it might be nice to have you visit for the holidays.”
“Did you?” Incredible. “You sat down with one of your mindfulness journals and made a little mind map asking yourself if your son would find this offer appealing?”
“Perhaps I caught you at a bad time. I’m not sure what plans your father might—”
“I wouldn’t know. And I don’t care.”
Every time we talk it’s like she’s never met me. Which makes total sense considering her total ambivalence when it comes to parenting. Drowning me in the bathtub would have been more humane than leaving me with my father in the divorce.
“It’s just I read somewhere recently that the holidays can be especially difficult for people in recovery. That it helps to be with family who can provide a positive influence.”
Then it’s a good thing I’m not in recovery. I roll my eyes at the phone. It takes more than a couple stints in rehab to break me. Better adversaries have tried.
“Honestly, Mother. What part of our relationship wouldn’t make me want to drink? Besides, if you really think I’m in recovery, then you don’t want me to come. Trust me, there’s probably more cocaine stashed in that house than a drug mule’s asshole.”
“Lawson.”
Right now she’s nervously wondering if I’m serious. How long has it been since the last time I was there? Where could I have hidden it? Can you rent a drug-sniffing dog? With any luck she’ll spend the rest of the week ripping out floorboards with a claw hammer.
“How are things at home?” she asks, as though there’ll come a day I provide a different answer.
I snort. “Is that a serious question?”
“Am I not supposed to take an interest in your welfare?”
“Wouldn’t that be a first.”
She’s shelled out for hundreds of hours of therapy I mostly didn’t attend. And when I did attend, I just goaded the good doctor through increasingly uncomfortable explanations of my most deviant sexual exploits until they either kicked me out of the office or excused themselves to masturbate in the restroom.
I assume.
Still, as offended as they were by my filthy mouth, those doctors would’ve been horrified if I’d gone ahead and actually bared my soul to them. If I told them all about Roman, my so-called father, a man who was shooting blanks so he hired a prostitute to seduce and impregnate his wife to bear him an heir. Except then he’d grown so disgusted with the effectiveness of his own plot that it triggered a deep and unrelenting hatred for that pathetic child. And then there’s Amelia, my mother, who took half his empire and ran. The selfish bitch who’d left her defenseless kid in the clutches of a man who would set puppies on fire for fun if there wasn’t a perpetual army of activists, lawyers, and government agencies stalking his every move for one heinous crime or another.
You know. Normal teen angst stuff.
“I do try, Lawson. You don’t make it easy to be close to you.”
I can’t think of a good reason why I should. My entire existence represents barely half her life. She blinked and I’m an adult. Meanwhile, I’ve lived every day of my life knowing I’m nothing more than a vengeful, tragic mistake used as a bargaining chip between two people who’d sooner throw the other off a cliff.
“I haven’t talked to Dad in weeks,” I answer in a bored tone. “So I’d say, sure, things are great on the home front.”