Page 39 of Give Me What You Will

“Your partner.” The glowing red eye of her cigarette flamed to life, and she puffed on the tobacco.

“I don’t have a partner.”

She scoffed and coughed. It was dry, yet somehow also wet.

“Frankie…!” She finally spat out, taking a sip of her bottled water.

“I dunno.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? You two are attached at the fucking hip. You go where he goes. He goes where you go. He’s yours.”

Sam blinked. “He’s not mine. We’re not—”

Friends.

“Bullshit,” she muttered. “He’s family.”

“He’s not.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “He’s too good for us.”

He jerked his gaze back to hers, surprised.

“He’s a good fuckin’ boy and an even better man. He comes by once a week. Stocks my fridge, gets me fresh ciggies. Patched a hole in the roof during the winter. I…” Her voice tightened, and she rubbed her chest. Her hands were aged with spots that he remembered once tracing with his fingers as a kid. He was the one who always reached for her. Always wanted the mom that would reach back, kiss him, hug him, hold him. Eventually, he stopped trying because she never did.

He briefly thought of Papi, who wasn’t overly affectionate, but just the right amount. Whereas Frankie seemed to touch him every chance he could, making it so casual, so affectionate, that Sam became addicted to it. Needing his best friend to throw an arm around him, playfully shove him after a teasing joke, even smack his ass at the gym after a good throw down. He had been touch starved until Frankie came along and healed that wound.

Now I’m just cum starved and would gladly donate a kidney for Frankie to do that to me again.

“I wish I could do somethin’ to show him how much I appreciate it,” his mom said.

“Appreciate it?” Sam echoed her words, pulling his thoughts back to the conversation. Frankie hadn’t told him any of this.

She tilted her head to the side. “What’s the matter with you? I thought you were fuckin’ smart. But you’re lookin’ at me like I’ve grown another fuckin’ arm.”

He sat back on his heels. “Frankie didn’t tell me he was doin’ so much for you.”

“He is. And why would he after you leavin’ like that? Abandoning him. You deserve a fuckin’ ass-kicking in my opinion. Not his friendship. He’s the son I should’ve had.”

Sam stilled, ice filling his veins, knuckles tightening. “Maybe he’ll take my position then. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

She glared at him, white smoke billowing from her cracked lips. “You still got it—don’t cha?”

“Got what?”

“My anger.”

“Fuck—” he stopped short and released a hard breath, refusing to be baited that easily.

He had been in therapy for three months. It was a delicate, slow process. He talked a lot about his mother and the hell she put him through as a kid. He understood why he had a chip on his shoulder—why he had thought for the longest time that the world had it out for him, and he could never get a leg up. Now, he recognized that was her belief. Her victim mindset. Not his. And he wanted nothing to do with it. Nothing to do with her. And yet, just like Frankie, he couldn’t stop himself from showing up and seeing her.

“You mentioned that you still had a few boxes of Papi’s,” he said, changing the subject.

“Yeah, I gave them to Frankie.”

He sighed. “Why?”

“Because he asked.”