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“Don’t know what to tell you, Mam. I’m always restless.” Shrugging, I added, “I’ll see Anne next month, like arranged, and not a minute before it.”
“We don’t want to see you spiral.”
We.
I rolled my eyes at that. “When have I ever spiraled?”
“You do a lot of things you don’t tell us about.”
Us. “I don’t spiral.”
“Sometimes I wonder if it would be better if you did.”
“Come again?”
“Anger, Gerard,” she pushed. “It’s okay to feel angry, pet.”
“Why would I be angry?”
“Maybe because sixth year is almost upon you and your father’s not here to see you off.”
Every ounce of joy in my heart evaporated. “Don’t do this.”
“It’s okay to be angry with the world.”
“I’m not angry with the world.” I was quick to shoot the idea down. I’m angry with him.
“Speaking of sixth year. You failed three of your subjects last year, son,” Keith chimed in. Good-for-nothing bastard. “We need to put a plan together for this coming school year if we want you to get into university.”
Maybe I’ll follow in my good old stepdaddy’s shoes and hook up with a wealthy man’s wife? Because that sure as shit seems to have turned out well for you. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Do you need grinds?” Mam asked. “Because if you do, Keith can phone Mr. Twomey and have that arranged for you. He’s goods friends with him—”
“I don’t need Keith to do anything for me,” I bit out, feeling the mask slip as a surge of rage rocketed up my body. “I’ve got it all under control,” I forced myself to add. “I’m grand, Mam.”
“Well, hopefully Mark will be able to make it home from India for Christmas this year,” she hurried to add, causing stepdaddy dearest to puff his chest out with pride. Ah yes, the perfect one. The un-fucked-up son. “I’m sure he could help you with your schoolwork over the Christmas break. We could set up some sort of schedule for him to tutor you…”
“I said I’m fine!” I snapped, slamming the fridge door closed and stalking for the door. “Everything’s grand. I’m grand. I don’t need any favors from your husband, and I sure as shit don’t need any fucking grinds from his son!”
“Gerard!” Mam gasped. “Excuse me. Don’t just storm off.”
Too late.
I was already bolting for the stairs.
“Come on, son,” Keith called after me. “After all these years, we can have a civil conversation, can’t we?”
“No,” I roared over my shoulder. “And I’m not your son.”
“Gibsie?”
Thud. Thud. Thud.
“This house is home to all of us.”
Thud. Thud. Thud.
“Can’t we just try to get along.”
