“The hell I did.”
“Are you saying someone else did it?”
Items tumble out onto the floor as she looks for whatever she thinks is inside her bag.
“Maybe you took it. Spent it and don’t remember.”
My brows shoot up. Now that’s one I haven’t heard from her yet. “I stole myownmoney?”
She slams her palms down on the bag and glares. “I don’t know what the hell you’re going on about, Colson! I never touched your shit.”
A fucking liar, that’s what she is.
“Fine.” I grit my teeth, pissed because we all know she did it. Why can’t she admit it? “What are you looking for?”
“None of your damn business, that’s what.”
She’s moodier than normal. That, or the time I haven’t been around is putting things into sharper perspective. If I still lived here and she came home acting like this, I’d steer clear until it’d be easier to talk to her. I don’t have that kind of time tonight.
“Is this how you’re going to act?”
“You’re the one that left,” she reminds rudely. “Why should I be any other way?”
As much as I try to keep it at bay, guilt ripples through me. “You know why I left.”
She scoffs. Rolls her eyes. “What I know is that you’re accusing me of something I had no part of, then left your mother to take care of all this shit on her own.”
I want to ask her what she means byall this shit. Besides basic upkeep, she’s set. It’s not like she has to keep a steady job to pay the bills. They’re already covered thanks to her parents’ life insurance policies and Aunt Bess setting up recurring payments for the mortgage and utilities from a separate bank account that she’s overseen since day one. If it weren’t for Aunt Bess, I would’ve grown up on the streets. At the very least, we’d have been forced out of this shit hole years ago.
So what have I left her with besides her own stupid choices and maybe a kitchen that could use a restocking—which she could handle on her own if she got her life together.
The lawn outside comes to mind.
The dirty dishes.
The burn holes in the carpet.
If I were still here, I would’ve mowed the lawn weeks ago. Those plates wouldn’t be piling up in the kitchen, either.
“I hope you’re happy with yourself,” she sneers.
“How long are you going to be mad at me? The rest of your goddamn life?”
“That’d serve you right,” she says, taking handfuls of paper and other stuff out of her bag. She dumps it all on the coffee table. “Fuck, where is it?” She says it more to herself than me.
“Where’s what?”
Ignoring me, she ruffles through her belongings with that line between her brows I know too well. She’s not looking for a missing ChapStick or an old receipt she needs to returnsomething to the store. Tightness constricts my airway, but I push through it to breathe. No matter how old I get, this never gets easier.
Why can’t she get help like all those people who Aunt Bess helps? She’s done it before. God fucking damnit, she can’t even look at me to hold a conversation, too worried about whatever is in her bag.
“Mom.”
She shoves half the stuff on the coffee table onto the floor and scratches her head. “That motherfucker. He must have taken it. I’ll kill him.”
“Who?”
She snaps her gaze over to me again, the look on her face telling me she forgot about my presence that quickly. “A friend.”
