“It’s processed and has too much sugar and your body needs proper nutrients?—”
“My body is fucking dying, Mom!” Blake screams. “I’m fucking dying. Every year, every month, every week I get a little worse. So, yeah, if I want to watch my brother play then I’m going to watch my brother play?—”
“It’s just hockey?—”
“No, it’s not!” He shoves her hand back, picks up the bowl and brings it over to the sink. “It’s my life and Colt’s life and it’s not fucking about you.”
“Now, I know you’re upset I’m not supportive about Sara?—”
I go stiff.
“No, Mom,” Blake says, snagging the milk and bringing it to the fridge. “You’ve been so goddamned terrible to Sara it’s a miracle she still talks to me, still wants to build a relationship with me.”
Our mom glowers.
“And I don’t know what your problem is, but I do know it’s a miracle that Colt”—his eyes come to mine—“still talks to you. Though, I guess he could take a page out of Dad’s book and pretend you don’t exist.”
“Blake,” I warn, even as our dad doesn’t so much as look up.
“No,” my brother says as he glances back at our mom. “Sara’s decided that she’s not related to you so she doesn’t have to put up with your shit. And you know what? I don’t fucking blame her.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” Blake is breathing heavily, sweat sheening on his forehead.
Fuck.
“Hey,” I say. “Let’s all take a breath. Mom, Dad, it’s late. Why don’t we get you guys set up in the other guest room? We’ll all get some sleep and we can talk more about this in the morning.”
“No!” my mom snaps, barely looking at me. “We’re solving this right now.”
“Blake doesn’t feel well?—”
“Because you dragged him on a plane and exposed him to a petri dish of germs?—”
I glance at my dad.
Nothing.
Fucking typical.
I look at Blake, who’s now pale in addition to sweaty.
Kylie moves to his side.
“Don’t you dare touch him!” my mom rushes over, shoving Kylie back into the cabinets.
“Mom!” Blake shouts.
Kylie gasps, clutching her hip. “I think we all need to calm down.”
I move to her side, hand brushing hers away, rubbing at the spot that has to hurt. “Baby,” I begin, apologies bubbling up.
“I’m okay,” she whispers. “But Blake isn’t.” She nods at my brother.
“Tell her,” Blake rasps.
I frown, and when Kylie nudges me, I move closer, boxing my mom out so I can hear him properly and ignore her nonstop blustering. “Tell who what?”
