You know, so thingsdon’tget weird at work like they have been. Clearly, a failed attempt that was all for nothing.
I rub a hand down my face. “I know it’s partially my fault for not being more direct with him, but—”
“Fuck that,” she spits out. “This is a grown-ass man, Win. He’s more than capable of making his own choices. He knew you weren’t interested and didn’t care. If he gets fired, that’s on him.”
Logically, I know she isn’t wrong. It’s what Janel said too. And if I bring it up to Moskins tomorrow, if I gather the courage to, then he’ll say the same thing as them. “I don’t like being the reason someone may lose something they’ve worked hard on.”
Being responsible for life-changing events places a heavy burden on people’s shoulders. If I lost my job, what would I do? Where would I go? I have bills. Rent. Student loans. I’d have to default or pause my payments. Then interest would only rack up what I owe, and I’d be double-screwed. I’d probably have to move in with Kourtney, which means hearing Brad bitch about there being no privacy.
“I don’t want to put somebody at a disadvantage where their life turns upside down,” I murmur, staring at my food.
My sister’s hand is gentle when it touches mine. “This is nothing like what happened to our parents, if that’s what you’re thinking. You went out on a date with someone who’s too arrogant to see his own faults. You didn’t get behind the wheel of a car. Cody is the one responsible for his own demise, just like Adam Burgess is responsible for what he did to Mom and Dad. Don’t blame yourself. They wouldn’t want that for you.”
Hearing that name sends shivers down my spine. For months after the accident, I’d had nightmares of squealing tires and sobbing screams, even though I wasn’t there. I would picture our family’s car being hit, then the person responsible speeding away.
Seeing Adam Burgess in court didn’t help. Kourtney told me not to go, but I wasn’t about to let her go alone. We’d both lost people, and I was going to face the person who caused it and be strong like she was.
That name…I haven’t let it infect my life in a very long time. I’ve refused to acknowledge it after it did so much damage. This is the first time I’ve heard her speak it in years.
My appetite wanes, which is sad because I rarely have full meals like this.
“Tell me you know I’m right,” she insists. “If you still feel bad for what happened to Mom and Dad, I need you to know it’s not your fault. Just like your coworker being a seedy motherfucker isn’t.”
I know there’s nothing I could have done to stop what happened. If I’d gone with them, I would have simply been victim number three. Kourtney would have lost everyone. Our grandparents on both sides passed away from a mixture of old age and illness, and we never had a lot of contact with aunts and uncles. We’ve heard from some of them on and off over the years, especially right after the accident, but even that fizzled out as time went on and they stopped feeling guilty about our parents’ deaths.
Finally, I nod. “I know it isn’t my fault.”
“Good,” she says firmly. “I hope Cody loses his job. Guys like him skeeve me out,” she replies nonchalantly, pointing to my food. “Now eat before it gets cold.”
I roll my eyes at her motherly tone. “Yes,Mom.”
She flips me off.
I blow her a kiss.
Luca sits up, turns to us, and says, “I changed my mind. I want a claw machine for Christmas instead. Look how cool they are inside!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Moskins
The ball ofblack and white fur hisses at me when I bend down to pick up the feather toy laying next to her. Then a paw darts out and swipes at me for a third time in a row.
“Ow!” I growl, retrieving my hand without the toy and glancing at the scratches left behind.
My arm looks like I put it through a meat slicer. Some of the wounds are fresh, others are days old. All of them are thanks to the demon staring up at me with beady yellow eyes.
I can handle two-hundred-and-thirty-pound men coming at me on the ice and smashing me into the boards. But cat scratches are an entirely new pain.
I jab my finger at the kitten. “What pit of Hell did you escape from? It’s no wonder they suggested I take you.”
Her sharp, high-pitched meow is accompanied by a little butt wiggle before she pounces on my shoe.
The feline, appropriately named Oreo, has black fur with little patches of white down the middle of her back, just like the cookie. According to the shelter, she’s the last of her litter to be adopted. Now I know why.
“I should have gotten a dog,” I mumble, peeling her from my jeans that she’s trying to climb up.
Oreo makes another noise, batting at my fingers as loud rumbles come from her.
