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Boyd
The soft contour of Fiona’s profile is what brands itself onto my brain hours after I’ve left the arts center, the mask she pulled over her features startling in contrast to the sunshine usually found there.
It’s not even that she looked away, completely over me, but that she didn’t seem to spare a cursory thought before making the decision. Her pointed turn made my gut sour for absolutely no reason when, before tonight, her response to me had no bearing on my soul whatsoever.
Her face is all I see as I weave through the desolate streets of the “bad” side of town on my bike—a vintage, forest green Harley that I bought at an auction not long after getting my first real paycheck with Ivers International. Gripping the handlebars harder than necessary, I try to steel my thoughts away from the redheaded vixen, aware of the destruction leading that way.
Instead, I focus on the likely mess awaiting me at Carson Pointe, the unanswered text messages and voicemails on my phone burning a hole in my pocket as I pull into the trailer park. It’s a small conglomerate of rent-to-own single wides, all with the same beige siding and slabs of concrete serving as carports beside their plots of land.
My old one is situated at the back, smushed between two newer models—if not for the fact that I’ve dragged my mother’s overdosing ass up the same plastic stairs and shoved her into a cold shower more times than I care to admit, I wouldn’t be able to find it at all.
Parking my bike beside the empty concrete slab, I kick down the stand and yank the key from the ignition, staring at the home for a few beats before getting off. Yellow light bleeds from the window above the kitchen sink, indicating someone’s awake, despite it being well past midnight.
Not that I expect her to have a normal sleep schedule, especially considering the odd hours she keeps as a line cook at the Waffle House on the edge of town. I guess it’d be too much to ask Riley to at least pretend she lives a normal life.
Hauling my leg over the bike seat, I take off my helmet, hooking it over the handlebar, and head to the front door. My hand trembles slightly as I raise it, curling into a fist around the nerves trying to poke holes in my resolve. I swallow as my knuckles connect with the wooden door, rapping twice, leaning in to listen for footsteps.
Shoving my hands into my suit pockets, I roll back on my heels, waiting.
Always fucking waiting.
I check the Rolex on my wrist after a stretch of silence passes, noting that it’s been approximately half an hour since I left the Montalto Arts Center. Five more minutes pass before I knock again, louder this time, unwilling to let either of them ignore me after practically begging me to show up in the first place.
The door swings open finally, just as my shoulders slump and give in to the defeat of being too weak for them. An almost malnourished frame stands in the doorway, dye job platinum hair matted to a slightly wrinkled forehead, eyes unsurprisingly bloodshot.
She looks me over, pausing when she sees the expensive crest on my decorative handkerchief, and pulls the door wider, stepping aside to let me in.
“LeeAnn,” I say in lieu of a formal greeting, knowing neither of us expects much else anyway. Anger surges like an unchecked wave inside my stomach, slapping against the shore of my sanity when I enter, noting the pile of dirty dishes in the sink and the rotten smell coming from them, the clusters of dog hair brushed against the white baseboards from a pet that’s been dead for months.
Christ,when was my last visit?
I try to calculate the time away in my head, turning in the small alcove to face my mother as she tries to finger brush her hair, knowing it’s been too long.
Biologically speaking, we look a lot alike, although when I was a kid she still tried to pass me off as her sister Dottie’s spawn. Her dark blonde roots are coming in, spreading like a disease against her scalp, her hazel eyes harsh and uninviting. There’s nothing about the woman that screams “maternal” or “warm,” which makes how Riley turned out a true phenomenon.
“Boyd.” LeeAnn sizes me up again, a frown spreading across her haggard face—even though she’s only forty-two, the way her skin hangs from her bones, as if God began plastering it onto her body and quit halfway through, makes her look decades older. “Finally step away from your fancy party long enough to stop by and see the common folk?”
Cocking my head, I stare into her eyes, noting the minuscule dilation in her pupils, the way they can’t quite seem to focus. Tension builds in my shoulders, coagulating like cement, sending a spike of apprehension through me.
“Are the common folk high right now?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
She rolls her eyes, shuffling toward the kitchen, catching her hip on the white fridge as she passes it. Yanking the door open, she reaches in for a jug of orange juice, unscrewing the cap and taking a swig from the container. “Just getting over a cold. Which you’d know, if you ever bothered to answer my calls or texts.”
Disbelief threads into my vision, but I ignore it. Her words feel like dull knives; not quite sharp enough to slice through on the first swipe, so she keeps sawing until she breaks through the skin. Rolling my shoulders, I try to dislodge the feel of their blade, ignoring the pang sluicing through my chest.
“I’d be more likely to answer your calls and texts if they weren’t always requests for cash.”
“Oh, right, like the small amounts I ask for would break your fucking bank. You’re wearing a five-thousand-dollar suit, for Christ’s sake, but your mother needs a little help making ends meet and suddenly she’s the goddamn Devil.”
She slams the orange juice back on its shelf and kicks the refrigerator door closed, the sound bouncing off the cream-colored walls, then walks around me to flop down in the navy suede recliner at the other side of the room.
Kicking the footrest up, she lays back in the chair, flipping on the small flat screen television mounted on the wall, then scoops up a pack of cigarettes from the end table at her side and shakes one out, lighting up without another word.
I don’t bother mentioning how it’s not her needing money that makes her the Devil—she’s been that in my book for as long as I can remember. Maybe since the day she left me on Dottie’s front porch and told me to figure shit out for myself at thirteen.
Maybe even before then.
But I never mention it.
