“I wasn’t talking about your mom.”
He snorts as we clatter down the stairs—
—and I come to an abrupt halt.
Orok slams into me from behind, sending me stumbling forward.
I whirl on him with my mouth agape. “Did you clean our apartment?”
He rolls his lips between his teeth and gives a sheepish shrug. “Moms. Ya know?”
Yeah. I do know. I know that they’ll deep-clean the whole place within an hour of being here no matter what state it’s in, but Orok’s attempt is good.
Every table is usually covered in old plates or takeout boxes, and books from classes or the library tend to stack up along with spell or research components. But there’s nary a book or bit of trash in sight. Our ratty couch has a decorative quilt Orok’s grandmother made folded on the back with two frilly pillows I’ve never seen in my life sitting on either end. The coffee table holds our unsorted mail in a neat stack. The dining table and kitchen are just as spotless—who knew our counters were blue?
I slug Orok in the shoulder. “A-plus, man. Is this why you’ve been clattering around down here all morning? You could’ve pressganged me into service; I was just spiraling in my bullshit.”
“Orok!” a voice calls through the door. His mom.
“Let us in, please,” another voice. My mom. She must lean closer to the door, because the next part comes lower and more muffled. “This neighborhood isn’t safe for us to be standing in the open.”
Yeah, that’s definitely my mom.
Orok moves for the door. “You don’t have to come home,” he whispers at me. “Don’t let her pressure you. Remember,nois a complete sentence.”
I flick him a deadpan look. The very idea of sayingnoto either of our mothers is, quite possibly, the most absurd thing he’s ever said to me.
He grabs the doorknob but doesn’t open it yet. “Just—them being here isn’t my fault, okay? Don’t be mad at me.”
“Why would I be mad at you? For, like, anything. You’re the one person who could dump a bowl of spaghetti on my head, and I’d assume you had a good reason and thank you.”
Orok gives me a weak smile before he says, in one breath, “Well, it isn’t spaghetti, but I’ve known your mom was coming since before the grant brunch, and I didn’t tell you because I knew you weren’t checking your messages from her so you wouldn’t know, and this way, you didn’t have to stress about it.”
Okay,nowI get pissed. “You son of a—”
He rips open the door. “Mom!”
Ghorza Monroe barges inside in a whirlwind of flailing arms. She squishes Orok’s face in her hands with gushy proclamations of adoration like he’s still the seven-year-old who’d cling to her arm on the walk to the bus stop. She’s bigger than he is, and even her hair is huge, a giant arch of dark curls, so she has to crouch in the doorframe while she oohs and aahs over her son.
Then she steps aside, and my mom slides past her.
Abigail Walsh is the sixty-year-old female version of me. Or I guess I’m the twenty-four-year-old male version of her? Either way, pale skin, blond curls, short stature, poor eyesight. She’s wearing a coat and a crisp Lesiara U collared shirt, death-gripping her purseover her shoulder becauseI don’t know why you chose to go to school in the city, Sebastian. There are pickpockets everywhere!
The polo at least makes me smile. She’s trying. I can, too.
“Hey, Mom,” I say.
She shuts the door and leans in for a hug, but stops at the last second and zips her eyes over my outfit. Sweatpants and a T-shirt.
Her lips twist in distaste. “I told you we were coming. Would it have been so hard to clean up for us?”
Ah. Well. I guess we’re not tryingthathard.
“Yeah. Sorry. Been a busy weekend, what with the semester ending, and—”
“The semesterended,” she repeats. “You had nothing to study for this weekend, and I know that job of yours doesn’t start for months. There’s no reason you couldn’t have made an effort for our arrival.”
I chew my tongue. “So. Good trip?”
