“You cannot be serious,” she says, looking me up and down. I check my body for any inadvertent markings, any words, giveaways. As far as I can see, the only signs of where I’ve been are my bed-tousled hair, my swollen kissing lips, and yesterday’s clothes. “You told me you were going to see Luke last night, you don’t answer any of my calls, and you just never come home?”
“I’m home now,” I say sheepishly.
“No, you’re homethe next day. At five in the morning. Jessi, this isn’t like you.”
Guilt spreads like fire over my body. “I’m really sor—” I start to say, but my mother speaks over me, her voice growing louder.
“Five a.m.,Jessi,” she hisses.
I open my mouth to speak again, but she keeps talking. “You might be eighteen, but as long as you live under our roof, you do not get to stay out at all hours, doing God knows what with whoever you like.”
“I was with Luke—” I begin.
“I don’t care who you were with. I don’t know what other people’s rules are, but in this house we have a curfew.”
I realize there’s no point in trying to defend myself. She won’t let me speak. Her hands are on her hips as she scowls at me, and despite the fact that she has a point, my remorse begins to morph into frustration.
As she continues her speech, I try to push back the memories of Luke and what we did, how desperately I want to be back in my own bed, reliving each moment. Reliving the warmth and peace I felt in his arms, and the cold and vulnerable feeling that remains in its place. Does Luke feel the same way?
“Jessi,” Mom says, and my attention snaps back to her. “Your father and I raised you to be more responsible than this.”
I feel myself flinch. Did she just say that?
To be more responsible than what exactly?
And she raised me?
Sheraised me.
Something inside me snaps.
“I can’t do this right now,” I say, heading for the stairs.
“I’m talking to you!”
“And I’m walking away!” I shout back. “Because you know what? You do not get to show up on the scene eighteen years late and start telling me what to do. You do not get to decide when to start giving a fuck.”
Her eyes widen. “How dare you—”
“How dare I what? Tell the truth? Call you out for something you couldn’t control?” I seethe. “I’m not calling you out for being sick, Mom. I get it. I’m sorry having me made things so bad for you.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Well, let me make it more simple. You do not get to have a kid and then opt out of her life. And if there’s no opt-out, there sure as hell is no opt-in option.”
“What’s going on?” Dad’s voice comes from the top of the stairs.
“I tried my best,” Mom says, and she’s crying now.
“So did I. I found homes in other places, with other people.”
“Mel,” she says. Not a question, just one accusing word. It’s the first time I know for sure that it bothered her how much time I spent at the Cohen house. Somehow it still hadn’t been enough to wake my mother up to fight for me. She is here now, apparently; what pisses me off is that she’s acting like she never left.
“Yes,Mel,” I spit. My voice trembles like I’m about to cry, which just makes me angrier. “She’s been more of a mother to me than you ever were.”
“Jessi!” Dad calls sternly from halfway down the stairs. “Stop that right now.”
I laugh. “What is it with people who never gave a fuck about my life caring all of a sudden?”
