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“Can he sing?”
“Name your poison, kid!”
“What about Drake?”
“Trash!”
“Roddy Rich?”
“Trash! Come on. Give me something I can work with!”
“Cardi B?”
“Oh God,” Wren groans. “Don’t even think about it.”
The bird makes a humming noise.
“Puff, pick something else,” Wren insists.
“Gobble me, swallow me. Drip down the side of me!”
Alex busts out with a laugh and I’m just grateful the damn bird didn’t start with the fucking chorus, then I hear him humming it, whores in this house implied in the rhythm.
“That’s epic,” Alex praises. “When can I meet him in person?”
He looks up at me, and God do I want him in St. Louis.
“Come at me, bro,” Puff snaps before continuing humming the tune to that damn song.
I don’t get another word in when Alex takes the phone from me and heads out into the living room. His face is glued to the phone, his laughs echoing around the room as Puff entertains him for the better part of an hour before promptly telling my son to fuck off and go to school.
Wren apologizes, but all I can do is smile. I called because I needed a friend, someone to tell me what I should be doing to help my son get a little bit of his happiness back, and his dumbass bird was all it took. I’m not offended by the foul-mouth little thing.
I’m grateful.
Chapter 22
Tinley
I never realized what people meant when they said they were walking around like their life was a dream, and I don’t mean in an everything is perfect sense. I’ve been in a dreamlike state for three days, every voice an echo, every conversation tainted with the haze of detachment. I’ve been going through the motions, yet somehow still always looking over my shoulder.
It took Cooper less than twenty-four hours to trash the house while we were at the hotel. I was thankful I left the keys to Ignacio’s truck with the desk clerk and took an Uber to the funeral home. I did it out of spite, a way to prove to him that I don’t need him, but it worked out in my favor. Had I brought Alex home to that mess, it might have broken me more than I already am.
I spent over an hour cleaning the living room, kitchen, and bathroom filled with fear that my brother would show up again. We don’t live in the best neighborhood, but with diligence, I’ve managed to feel mostly safe here. I hate that Cooper snatched that away from me so easily.
“Are you ready?”
I turn my head to look at Ignacio. Despite what happened between us at the hotel and the aftermath, I’ve leaned on him probably more than I should’ve in the last couple of days leading up to today.
“No,” I answer honestly, switching my gaze to the small group of people making their way to my mother’s open grave.
Alex places his hand on my shoulder, giving it a little squeeze and it hurts more than helps. I should be consoling him, making sure he’s okay. So easily I’ve let those responsibilities shift, leaving that weight on his and Ignacio’s shoulders. I want to straighten up and hold my head up high, assure everyone that I’m okay, but I don’t have the strength to even lie.
Confusion draws in my brows when I see Ignacio standing at my side of his truck with his hand out. I don’t know when he and Alex climbed out but they’re both looking at me expectantly.
The prospect of losing time helps me to snap out of it enough to take Ig’s hand and climb out of the truck. He moves his arm around my shoulder as I reach down to take Alex’s hand.
My son has been so brave through all of this, but I can’t help but wonder what kind of toll it’s taking on him emotionally. Externally, he seems to have accepted Mom’s death, but I know better. He’s hurting, and I’ve been hurting too much to help him.
As we walk to take our seats for the graveside service, I make a vow to snap out of it and do better, but as the minister begins to speak about my mother, I beg God for just a few more minutes before that strength is expected of me.
I can’t focus on the service, which is a shame because it’s my mother’s final farewell, because my eyes are darting all over the place waiting for Cooper to show up and make a scene.
Somehow we make it through without his shadow looming over us, and through the wake—held at the activity hall at the church because I’m too embarrassed for anyone to see the condition of the house—without the sight of him.
As grateful as I am, I’m still appalled that he couldn’t be bothered. I texted him—a message that went unresponded to—with the information on the service more than once, but he’ll still somehow turn it around on me for missing it.
