“I’m more like a distant relative.” I take the elastic from my wrist and pull my hair into a ponytail. “I mean, Iamhis niece, but I’ve never actually met him so we’re basically strangers.”
“So you’re Devon’s kid?”
I lean forward, gripping the back of the seat. “You know my dad?”
“Can’t really say I know him. Only met him a few times.” He glances back at me. “Sorry to hear about the relapse.”
I shrug. “Doesn’t surprise me. He’s been an addict my whole life.”
“You see him much?”
“Nine whole times since I was born,” I say with a humorless laugh. “Not exactly Father of the Year.”
“So you live with your mother?”
“Not anymore.” I stare down at the leather seat, noticing the neatly stitched line along the seams.
“Is she an addict too?” he asks.
I swallow. “She’s dead.”
“Oh.” He pauses. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Silence follows, although he keeps glancing at me in the mirror like he wants to say something. After a few minutes, he does.
“I don’t mean to pry, but is that why you’re here?”
“Yeah.” I run my hand over the stitched seam on the seat beside me. “She died a couple weeks ago. I had nowhere to go. The social worker said I’d end up in foster care if Brock didn’t want me. He’s the only family I have other than my dad, but he’s in rehab.”
“That’s tough. My father passed when I was around your age. My mother wasn’t well, so I went to live with my aunt. That’s how I ended up here in LA. Never planned to stay but I’ve been here fifty years.”
“I’m not staying,” I say, adamantly. “As soon as I turn eighteen, I’m outta here. I’m going back to New York and moving in with my boyfriend.”
He nods. “Is the boyfriend someone you met at school?”
“We went to different schools. I met him at a concert. He’s a couple years older than me.”
“Is he in college?”
“No. He’s not sure what he’s going to do. For now he’s working part-time at this place that sells guitars.”
“So he’s a musician.”
“Not really. He took a few lessons but didn’t like it.”
“What about you? Are you planning to go to college?”
“I can’t. I don’t have the money.”
“Brock could certainly afford to send you. Perhaps he’ll offer to while you’re here.”
I laugh. “I don’t think so. He doesn’t even know me. And he hates his brother, which means he’ll hate me too.”
“Families are complicated,” he says with a sigh. “Just can’t seem to get along.”
“I got along with my mom.” I stare out the window. “We were best friends,” I whisper.
A lump forms in my throat, and I close my eyes and focus on my breathing to make the sadness go away.
