“No,” Mom says. “Theaccidentcame first. Then the wrenching pain. Everything after that was Anthony trying to stay in our lives the best way he knew how.”
“Well, it wasn’t good enough.”
“It was for me.”
“How can you say that?” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “He was always out there working on that model, getting stoned, while you worked two jobs.”
“Don’t you know why? He was trying, desperately, to regain his motor skills so he could find a new job and take care of us again. Every house he painted, every little dog, every lamppost, he’d say,I’m getting better, Gisella. Every day, I’m getting a little better.And he’d go out there the next day and work twice as hard. You have a lot of his determination.”
I blink, hard.Thatwas why? My whole body shakes itself no, rejecting this statement and all it implies. “But he didn’t get better,” I insist. “He never made anything of himself again, and then he died and left us on our own.”
“And he deserved our love anyway,” Mom says. “He was there for us in the ways he knew how to be. You were so young, you may not remember, but he cooked every meal for us. After dinner, he’d sit with you at the table while you did your homework.”
“He never helped.”
Mom shrugs. “He didn’t need to. But if you did need him, he was there for you, Julian.”
“I didn’t want to need him,” I admit, remembering all those nights he sat beside me, asking me questions so I’d explain what I was learning to him. I thought he was quizzing me at the time, which triggered my competitive need to be right. But… maybe he was just making sure I didn’t need him, after all. “I was so mad at him for—for not being more.”
“He knew that, too. And he might not have been the dad you wanted, but you were the son of his dreams.”
I sigh. “Because I was smart? Because I worked hard?”
“No,” Mom says simply. “Because you existed.”
The tears I don’t want to cry are streaming down my face, and Mom clucks her tongue, bringing me in close for a hug.
“Julie. It’s time to rewrite the story you tell yourself about your dad. Cannabis helps people. Nomi helps people. And your actions are hurting her and the people of this town.” Mom runs her hand up and down my back, and it’s simultaneously the most comforting and devastating thing I’ve ever felt. “I know you care about her, sweetie, and in your own way, you’re trying to protect her. But it’s time to listen to her for a change, and if you want to show you care, lethertell you how. You can’t substitute your judgment for hers, and moreover, you don’t deserve to. Do you understand that now?”
I suck in a deep, shaking breath, my chin still resting on my mother’s shoulder. “I-I guess so.”
“Good. Tomorrow morning, you’ll go over to her dispensary and show off all this new emotional growth.” Mom sits back and slaps my leg. “And your thighs. I’ll find some of Uncle Joseph’s nut-huggers.”
Christ.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
NOMI
There are many things I hate about running a coffee shop. First, my inability to make it. While I understand drip coffee now, the espresso torture device still eludes me. A very close second, though, is howearlythese coffee people demand to drink it. If I want to make any money, I have to be here at six in the godforsaken morning. It’s brutal, unfair, andallJulian’s fault.
When I pull into my parking spot this morning, there’s already a person waiting outside the shop’s door. It’s not even that weird guy Carl, who always asks if we’re open when we’re not.
“Fuckingmaniac.Wouldn’tneedcoffee if you slept to a goddamn reasonable hour!”
Which is, I’m learning, the reason I’ve never needed coffee—I’ve neverhadto wake up this early for work before.
Coincidentally, I’ve also learned I’m a huge bitch before eight a.m.
The keys are at the bottom of my bag because everything’s difficult and life is terrible, so I’m too busy rooting around to give the maniac a second glance. To be honest, I don’t want to see them. I just want to be asleep.
“Shop doesn’t open for a half an hour, so back thefu—”
“You win, Wyeth.”
My hand freezes in my bag, and I slowly lift my gaze to expensive canvas shoes, then fine ankles leading to shapely calves. Kneecaps, whichare normal as far as kneecaps go, and then the thighs, grooved with muscle like walnuts. Thenmorethighs, and more, andJesus, is the man Porky-Pigging it? Finally, my eyes hit fabric, then a full, physically present crotch. They flip upward in horror as recognition dawns.
“Julian?”
