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Not for the first time, I consider this list and wonder if Walker maybe made it for me and not him. Maybe this wasn’t a “things I want to do before I die” so much as a “things Case should do when he has to live.” The last years of my life have been so tied up in the end of Walker’s. Days spent trying to pretend everything was normal. Like I wasn’t afraid of the way his skin seemed to hang on his lanky frame or the way his lungs would rattle after something as easy as walking up steps. Like I didn’t even notice it. Because he needed one person to act normal. But now he’s gone, and I don’t have to pretend everything is normal anymore.
Except I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how to doany of this anymore. Making a friend should be easy, but I’ve forgotten how.
I put the list in a drawer and slam it shut, heading for the shower. I’ve changed my mind about getting back into bed. I’m done sleeping.
SevenWINNIE
Two days later, I’m still annoyed with Case Benton and the stupid, ignorant words that came out of his stupid, attractive mouth hole.
(Outside my POS-hand-me-down sedan and his gleaming, top-of-the-line SUV. If ever there was an apt metaphor for the difference between us, that would be it.)
So while I know I have every right to be as frustrated as I am with Jesse, I can’t help but think at least some of my ire is because of the dickwad who called me a “middle-aged mom.”
Seriously. A mom?
Let’s be clear, he isn’t necessarily wrong. I feel old. Way older than nineteen. It’s as though I went from age nine togrownafter my mom left us. It’s like one of those online quizzes. Myreal age, according to the level of trauma and bullshit I’ve survived, has got to be at least seventy by now. Seventy-five after my dumbass little brother decided to sneak out after dinner and not answer my texts.
I should throw his drool-stained pillow on the stoop andlock the door until morning. Or maybe call our dad and tattle on him for having a girlfriend. Or, like, I don’t know, wait till he falls asleep, put his fingers in a cup of hot water till he wets himself, and then put the video on Instagram.
If I had an Instagram, that is.
And if he were home.
Instead, I’m sitting up, pacing the kitchen. I gave up trying to read the smutty werewolf romance novel Camilla lent me. Our Netflix subscription stopped three months ago when my dad forgot to leave enough money in our account to cover the withdrawal. I could renew it now or I could look online for a pair of shoes for Garrett. I pick up my phone and sit down at the table, scrolling Facebook Marketplace for a bit, unsuccessfully.
Damn.
I’m about to close out when I see a beautiful pair of women’s cowboy boots for sale. Gently used but in excellent condition. I groan to myself. Gorgeous dark brown leather inlaid with turquoise.
I would wear the hell out of those.
They’re only a hundred dollars, but that’s already a hundred dollars more than I have to spend on anything for myself. Garrett needs shoes. I don’t. Maybe I can pick up a couple of extra rides and stow away a little extra cash for myself. Of course, these boots will be gone, but there might be more.
Yeah, right. I bookmark the seller and open YouTube instead, looking through clips of barrel racing. I find a batch uploaded from the National Finals Rodeo three months prior. I already know the results, but don’t mind watching the ten-day series again. I lean back in my chair with a creak and pull my heels up to the seat, resting my phone against my knee. I run my jagged thumbnail back and forth on my bottom lip, soaking up everydetail I can from the tiny images on the screen. All the riders have their own style of doing things. Some press their bodies forward in the straightaway. Some use their reins as a sort of replacement crop to spur their horses on. Some give the barrels a wider berth, losing seconds but saving points.
I catalog the differences, committing them to memory and visualizing how to implement them into my own training with Queen Mab. If we can’tbothrace, at least one of us should. Eventually, I close out the app with a sigh just as the front door finally opens to reveal my younger brother trying—and failing—to be stealthy.
“SHIT, FUCK, WIN!”
“Shh.” I hold a finger up to my lips. “Garrett is sleeping, dummy.”
“What the hell are you doing sitting in the dark?”
“You know the light keeps her awake. I was online shopping.”
He’s not fooled. He walks over to the stove top and flips on the small light. “Yeah, right. You’re definitely waiting up.”
“I shouldn’t need to. It’s nearly midnight and you have school in the morning. You should’ve been home hours ago.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t have curfew. And anyway, why do you care? You’re not my mom.”
I press my fingers to my temples, massaging away the intruding headache. The same one I get every time we argue. I’m gonna start calling itJesse. “You’re right, I’m not. I’m theoldest. I’m the one who works full time, pays all the bills, buys all the groceries, picks Garrett up from school, buys your clothes, cooks your meals, makes sure you get to your doctors’ appointments and to the dentist, and apparently is the one who waits up and worries over you because you never come home or, worse, you sneak outas if I can’t fucking tell!” By the end, I’m whisper-shouting. My composure is nearing a breaking point. I take a deep breath. The last thing I need is Garrett awake and getting involved.
“You’re absolutely correct, though. I’m not your mom. I didn’t ask for any of this, but it turns out no one else is gonna do it, so if I don’t, I’ll be abandoning you. And thatis exactly like our mom.”
Jesse’s nostrils flare, and his lips press together. I know he wants to yell back, but there’s nothing he can say. Because he knows—he fucking knows—I’m right.
So instead, I walk over to the stove light and switch it off. My eyes adjust to the dark and I can still see his outline illuminated, so I step closer, placing my hand on his shoulder, noticing not for the first time, how tall and broad he’s getting.
