I’ve already had my share of living alone, so despite moments like this—when my mother makes me wonder why I still live here—family life is what keeps me rooted.
I narrow my eyes at the female face that looks uncannily like my own. I’ve lost count of how many times, during my adolescence, I wondered whether my biological mother would resemble me as much as my adoptive one does.
“It’s Christmas, Mother. Shouldn’t goodwill be the default for our behavior? At least this time of year? Preserving the spirit of peace…” I suggest, and her face twists into an even deeper grimace.
“I’ll take it under advisement,” she says—and I laugh, because that’s her standard response to anything she has absolutely no intention of doing.
“Are you going out?” she asks, as though repeating the same question might be a magical formula to change an answer she already knows.
Who could blame her? It always worked with my father. It’s no surprise she keeps trying it with me.
“I am.”
“I get nervous when you go out on an important day like this, Nero. We have lunch tomorrow and—”
“And I’ll be exactly where I’m expected to be, Mother. Don’t worry. There’s no reason to be nervous,” I assure her, stepping back when her arms fall to her sides.
I take two steps back and lean my hips against the kitchen island. I cross my ankles and slide a hand into my pocket, pulling out my phone.
Every year it’s the same. My mother insists on collecting parties as if they were the most precious jewels and no one but her had the right to possess them. Most of the time, I don’t care. She can keep every party she wants—except this one. I wake my phone screen and check the time. This one is mine, and I’m late.
“What I’m trying to say—” she begins again, but new footsteps sound in the hallway, cutting her off as she turns to see who’s approaching.
Another unknown saint to thank, certainly. Or at least, that’s what I think until Drako walks into the kitchen wearing the association uniform and his trademark mocking grin.
He deserves no thanks. He deserves to be kicked all the way from here to the association, because if he weren’t late, I wouldn’t be dealing with my mother’s unreasonable possessiveness in the first place.
“Good morning,” he says to Lysandra with a nod before walking past her and grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter. “Morning to you too, Nero.” He greets me without looking up, far too busy inspecting the fruit in his hand for something I don’t understand—until his next words clarify it. “These are safe, right? Not poisoned because I didn’t warn you I was coming? Or is that the trick—to make me think that, eat it, and die?”
He tilts his head as if this were truly a worthy concern and reaches into the bowl again, grabs another apple, and tosses the first one to me. “You eat first. She wouldn’t poison her own son.”
I don’t need to look at my mother to know that disgust is seeping from her pores. Lysandra has never been able to understand my relationship with my friends, and for that reason, she’s never bothered to treat them well. Atlas and Apollo handle it the best way possible—they simply ignore it. But Drako?
Drako has this infuriating habit of provoking her without caring about the consequences, which usually means I have to do damage control. I close my eyes briefly and exhale slowly.
“Shut up, Drako.” The moment the words leave my mouth, a symphony of honking explodes through the walls and windows of the house. “Who’s driving?” I ask him, but he stays silent, suddenly very interested in the white tiles he hates just as much as I do. “Drako,” I grind out.
“Oh, sorry,” he says, feigning surprise. “Do I have permission to speak now?” My response is nothing more than a sideways glare, and he relents. “Atlas.”
“And now he’s in a hurry?” I huff, indignant. They’re the ones who were late. I move toward the door, leaving behind the apple my friend threw at me.
“See you later, Mother,” I say, placing another kiss on her forehead.
“Promise you’ll be here for lunch tomorrow.”
“I already promised. I won’t do it again,” I say, and she rolls her blue eyes—the same shade as mine.
“Bye,” Drako says, far too pleased, and my mother doesn’t reply.
They declared war on each other years ago. But while Drako fights with sarcasm and double-meaning jokes, my mother chooses silence as her weapon.
We cross the rooms and hallways until we’re outside, where we find Atlas waiting with his usual grave expression inside the tall black Jeep. I take the front seat while Drako climbs into the back.
“Where’s Apollo?” I ask, because we should all be heading to the association together.
“He said he was on his way. I thought he’d come straight here,” Atlas replies.
“He didn’t sleep at home?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
