I shrug, uncomfortable with the gratitude. “It’s nothing. You guys need it for school, so…”
“Still,” Em insists. “It means a lot.”
The sincerity in her voice makes my throat tight. I clear it roughly. “Yeah, well. You two better get moving, or you’ll be late.”
They nod, finishing up their breakfast. As they grab their bags, I hand them each a few bucks for lunch. “Try to eat something decent, okay? Not just crap from the vending machine.”
“Yes,Mom.” Em rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile playing on her lips. “I’m 17, big sis. Pretty sure I know how to feed myself.”
The word ‘mom’ makes my jaw clench. I force out a breath, my fingers tightening around the rag I’m using to wipe down the counter. “Yeah, well, last I checked, 17 is still underage. And you’re still eating junk.”
Em’s eyes light up. “Speaking of which, can we get Twinkies? And maybe some Cheetos? Ooh, and those little powdered donuts!”
I snort, tossing the rag aside. It lands with a wet smack on the sink. “Christ, kid. Your arteries’ll be clogged before you hit 20.”
“Says the woman who inhales bacon cheeseburgers like they’re going extinct,” Em fires back, grinning.
“Hey, at least that’s real food,” I argue, pointing the ketchup bottle at her accusingly. “Not radioactive orange dust and cream-filled diabetes sticks.”
Em clutches her chest in mock offense. “How dare you insult the holy trinity of processed goodness?”
She leans in and kisses me on the cheek. Half-siblings, all of us, and none of us know jack shit about our mothers. My eyes dart to the lump on the couch—our dad, snoring like a fucking freight train. Anger flares in my veins, hot and familiar. That bastard’s the only common thread in this fucked-up tapestry he calls a family.
Lenny follows my gaze and snorts. “Think we should draw on his face?”
Em elbows him, but she’s fighting a grin. “Don’t tempt me.”
I shake my head but can’t help the smirk tugging at my lips. “Get outta here, you little shits.”
As they head for the door, I catch a whiff of something rank. The trash needs taking out, and the sink’s full of dishes that are starting to smell. Christ, this place is a rat’s nest.
“I’ll clean up when I get home,” I promise, more to myself than to them.
Lenny pauses at the door. “You don’t have to do everything, you know.”
I force a smile. “I know, squirt. Now, get going. Learn something, okay?”
The door clicks shut behind the kids, and I’m left alone with the stench of stale beer and our passed-out excuse for a father. I’m about to start tackling the mess when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Fishing it out, I see a message that makes my stomach drop.
Where the fuck are you?
Shit.It’s Rosie, the other waitress at Joe’s Diner. I glance at the time and feel my heart rate spike. 6:55 AM. Cunt’s sake. I’m late.
“Goddammit!” I hiss, scrambling to grab my purse. I stub my toe on the edge of the couch, biting back a string of curses that would make a sailor blush. Dad doesn’t even stir, the useless lump.
I hop toward the door, shoving my feet into my worn-out sneakers. No time to retie them. As I yank the door open, my phone buzzes again.
Joe’s on the warpath. Get your ass here NOW.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter, slamming the door behind me and taking the stairs two at a time.
11
Wren
Joe's diner is only four blocks away, but it might as well be four miles. I break into a run, my lungs burning as I dodge early-morning commuters and a homeless guy pushing a shopping cart.
My phone keeps buzzing in my pocket, probably Rosie updating me on Joe’s increasing blood pressure. That crusty old bastard’s gonna have an aneurysm one of these days, and I’ll be damned if it’s because of me.
