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“It worked.”
Abby bitterly smiles. “Maybe a little too well.” Then the smile dissolves. “Or maybe it didn’t work well enough. My dad was a drug dealer.”
“Isaiah told me about him the night you were shot.”
She doesn’t seem surprised that Isaiah spilled and she shouldn’t be. Turns out Isaiah’s speech was a directive from Abby. If anything like the night in the alley happened, she asked Isaiah to scare me away.
“He’s in prison,” she offers like razor blades on a tray. “For murder. Life sentence and all. I can give you his last name if you want so you can look it up on Google. It all happened right as Grams started forgetting things—like when to eat.”
My eyes flash to hers. “You don’t share the same last name?”
“No. He never had custody of me. Grams did and then when the Alzheimer’s set in, we switched it over to Mac.”
“Who is Mac to you?” I itch with how far past the veiled curtain I’ve wandered. Mac owns the auto shop Isaiah used to work at while he was in high school. It’s the place where Abby and I met.
“My great-uncle. Grams’s way younger brother. Grams is ninety now. Mac obviously isn’t.”
The question seems so obvious that I feel stupid asking it. “Why is this your burden then? Why isn’t Mac taking care of all of this?”
Abby’s face scrunches in a have-you-lost-your-mind expression. “He’s a drunk. He can barely drink his way out of the paper bag his bottles come in. He’s a good drunk though. Reads the Bible, but his shit? Not together. Dad taught me how to take care of myself and I can. And I saw enough of what the system is capable of through Isaiah and Noah. No thank you to that solution.”
I don’t know much about what Isaiah and Noah went through in foster care, but I heard a few of their stories, saw the dark shadows in their eyes. That shit is more telling than any words they could have said.
Abby dusts the crumbs off her tank and cleans up our mess by shoving it all back in the bag and placing it on her dresser.
“What about your mom?” I ask, holding my breath. That fear I hate trickles into my mouth.
“Heroin junkie.” Abby’s too casual and it causes me to be on edge. “My dad was her dealer. She gave him sex when she couldn’t pay. She then dropped off the face of the planet for a bit. Dad thought she’d died. Happened with what he sold so he didn’t think much of it.”
I can’t help the slight wideni
ng of my eyes and Abby notices. She’s trying to shock me with the truth and it’s hard as hell to not react, especially when I hear the tone she uses each time she says “Dad.” It’s like a hug and a kiss from a two-year-old and the hero worship is plain on her face, but how do you love a heroin dealer? How do you love a man who treated your mom like a prostitute and didn’t care if she died? How do you love a man locked up for murder?
Abby pauses. Maybe giving me a chance to run out of the room. Maybe giving me a chance to open my mouth and condemn myself. I do neither and she presses forward.
“Mom popped back up three years later, searching for a hit.” Abby smacks her arm where a junkie would inject the needle. “And when Mom entered a bar high to the sky and with me in tow his life changed. He said we were both covered in filth and that my hair was matted like a dog’s. I didn’t talk, didn’t smile, so scrawny he assumed I never ate, but he knew the moment I looked up at him that I was his kid so he took me.”
“What do you mean he took you?” The words rush out before I can think them through and Abby’s lips slightly tilt up. Me losing my shit? That’s what she wants and I stand to get ahold of myself.
Abby walks over to me and touches my face. It’s an erotic touch, it’s a knowing touch, and it’s one she’s using to play her game. “She offered me as payment for her drugs and my father accepted.”
Abby
I turn away from Logan and my face automatically falls. I’ve never told anyone this. Nobody, not even Isaiah. If Logan won’t leave because of something I manufactured, then he’ll leave because I’m telling the truth. I’m the product of the sludge of humanity. I’m what happens when the devil is let loose to play.
My hands tremble as I try to open the antibiotics and I curse under my breath when the first few attempts don’t work. Logan moves to beside me, takes the bottle from my hands, and in one easy motion, screws off the lid.
“Sometimes I really do hate you.” Most of the time, I like him way too much.
Logan reads the bottle and shakes out one pill into my palm. Thankfully, on my own, I open the water bottle, and wash down the pill.
“Are you going to take the painkiller?” he asks.
Seriously? “Have you heard nothing I’ve said? I’ve got an uncle who’s a drunk and my mother was a junkie. The addiction genetics don’t look too pretty here.”
Because I can’t handle Logan being close, I sit on my bed and tuck a pillow to my stomach. Logan leans against my dresser and I take mental snapshots. Filing away in my memory databank how beautiful the boy is—all shoulders and muscles. Strands of his black hair hang over his forehead and those chocolate-brown eyes are studying me like I’m a problem that can be solved.
Logan’s one of the good guys and I’ve dragged him too far into my dark life.
