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“We can try.”
"You can," I agreed, "but just live your life how you want to. Don't let him stop you. That's the best way."
"Is that what you did?"
"No. It's what I should have done."
His gaze was measured as he took me in before he peered around the studio. “You need to get a skylight installed before you show Mom. She’ll tell you this place isn’t right otherwise.”
I grumbled under my breath, “Such a pain in the ass.”
He gave me a toothy grin. “I’ll tell her you said that.”
“You can,” I retorted. “I’d tell her myself.”
“No, you wouldn’t. It would probably make her cry right now.”
“Nah. Not your ma. Most women would cry, she’d just throw something at me.”
His grin widened. “That’s my mom,” he declared, his pride clear.
Amused, I told him, “I got something for you.”
“What?” he asked warily.
“There’s an office. They’re in there.”
“What is it?”
“A gift.”
“A gift?” His wariness tripled. “But I got into another fight…” Then he huffed. “Is this because of Cameron?
“Look, I get it. I’m an older brother now. I need to set a good example. But he’s like three weeks old. I can’t set a bad example when he can’t sit up straight.”
He had a point.
I cleared my throat. “This isn’t because of Cameron. And it isn’t about you getting into a fight. Your mom’s going to punish you. I don’t need to worry about that,” I disregarded, stepping away from him and heading to the back office. “This is about you and the man you’re going to become.”
“You could tell her that it was self-defense,” he argued, but I heard his footsteps and knew he was following me.
“Why would I do that?” I drawled. “It would be a lie.”
The office was bare apart from a shitty desk and two chairs. On the desk were my gifts, and I took a seat in one of the chairs.
“You’re not gonna be like me, are you, Shay? I commit a crime; I never do the time. That’s not your path, is it?”
I knew he was about to answer, but then he saw the gifts and his eyes bugged. “Is that a gun?”
I nodded. “Know what a ghost gun is?”
“No.” His brow furrowed as he dropped his school bag beside the seat and slumped in the chair. “What is it?”
“It means it has no registration ID. For all intents and purposes, it doesn’t exist. To the government, anyway.” I slipped the weapon across the desk. “Pick it up. See how it feels in your hands.”
Eyes still wide, he did as I suggested, and because he knew how to wield a gun, I watched him go through the steps of checking whether it was loaded with bullets or not.
Even though I didn’t want him to be comfortable with guns, I was proud of how he held it. That he knew what to do with it, but it remained alien to him.
