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“Will do. I’ll call them now.”
I spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning the kitchen, changing the sheets on my mom’s bed, doing laundry for her, and ordering groceries she probably won’t eat.
I stare too long at the wine in the pantry, the box of it in the fridge, battling the instinct to pour it all down the sink and hide her car keys. It wouldn’t matter. She’d find a way. Either she’d order a delivery on her phone or walk to the liquor store.
So I leave her booze alone.
Mom wakes up around six. I coerce her into eating grilled cheese and tomato soup and drinking a full glass of water. She’s subdued, bleary-eyed, and for once has an appetite.
By the time I take our plates to the kitchen, though, that familiar, restless energy is building inside her. Stopping on the threshold of the living room, I notice the fine tremor in her hands.
Pity surges through me, followed by a spark of resentment, then guilt. All the research I’ve done has been pretty clear on one count: her compulsion is outside of her power to control at this point.
She may not want to drink. She may hate herself for it. But her addiction owns her body and brain.
“You can go, Lucas,” she says, not meeting my stare.
“Why don’t you take a shower?” I ask, hoping to redirect her. “Then I’ll make popcorn and we can watch a movie.”
Her face flushes, angry eyes snapping to mine. “You seem to be confused about who the parent is. I don’t need your help.”
Even though I’d expected a reaction along those lines, it burns. The helplessness. The anger. Why am I even trying to help this woman who turned a blind eye to my father’s beatings? Who took him back when he pushed her down the stairs, breaking her damn leg? What sick, small part of me still believes she can be someone she isn’t? A loving mother who protects her children.
I want to unload all my vitriol on her shoulders. Instead, I clench my teeth so hard pain spikes through my jaw. “Fine. I’ll be back in the morning.”
I head for the front door, but her voice stops me. “Why did you even come back here?” she demands. “I know it wasn’t for me. It’s that Miller girl, isn’t it?” Her chuckle is sharp and grating. “She marries your best friend but still has you wrapped around her little finger. You think she’s going to love you? Marry you now and have your kids? She pities you. It’s pathetic. Your father would be ashamed of the man you’ve become.”
Each syllable is a blow that echoes against old scars and healed bruises. It isn’t the first time she’s said these things, but it’s the first time since realizing what Celeste means to me. The first time I don’t have a layer of apathy to protect me.
My stomach knots with the need to lash out. Rage tunnels my vision, electrifying in its potential—and so utterly terrifying it instantly drains from my body. I gulp in air, release my white-knuckled grip on the doorframe, and walk slowly to the front door. Grab my keys. Close the door without slamming it. Walk to my car.
“Lucas?”
Her voice, coming from her parents’ front yard, makes me flinch. Cuts me deep. Long, riotous blond hair and a concerned expression in my peripheral. I keep walking. I can’t, can’t see her right now.
“Hey! Are you okay?”
She’s moving closer. I move faster, unlocking my car and all but jumping inside. I fumble with my keys, finally getting them in the ignition. I back out without looking, them slam on the brakes as a car honks.
Fuck. Keep it together.
My breath hisses through my teeth, which I can’t seem to unclench. Celeste is at the end of the driveway, her eyes huge and worried.
I check all my mirrors, then reverse carefully into the street and drive away. Two miles below the speed limit. Extra-long stops at stop signs. Careful and safe.
Inside, I’m a dying star. Imploding into nothing.
25
Something is very wrong with Lucas.
I watch his taillights disappear around the corner, then glance back at his mom’s house. The soles of my feet prickle. My chest tightens.
I recognized the look on his face, though seeing it on a grown man somehow hits differently. She hurt him. Not physically. No, this was worse than a punch or a kick.
Before I fully realize what I’m doing, I’m pounding on Mrs. Adler’s front door. I give her ten seconds to answer, then twist the knob and walk inside.
She’s leaving the kitchen and jerks to a stop when she sees me. “What the hell are you doing here?” The wine glass in her hand shakes. Red drops splatter onto her robe. “Get out!”
