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“I’m fine.” A forced smile stretches the skin across her pale face.
“Then why are you here?” I challenge her because it’s the only way I know how to interact with my mother. My instinct is to doubt and distrust her.
I’m not even sure the brief, rare encounters we’ve had since she abandoned our family can be categorized as a relationship. But we’rerelated. And I care, even knowing I shouldn’t. Knowing it’ll only hurt more when she inevitably disappears and disappoints again.
She looks away, avoiding my gaze. Unease suffuses through me, spreading like wildfire.
A middle-aged man approaches, the strides of his heavy work boots echoing down the linoleum hallway. I expect him to pass us. Instead, he pauses. Ignores me and focuses on my mom as he tucks a folded white paper into his pocket. “We’re all set, Lana.”
My mom nods. “Thanks. Let’s go.”
“Who the fuck are you?” The question is out before I can think it through. Just one of my many impulsive decisions.
He focuses on me for the first time, raising one unimpressed brow as he scrubs a palm against his thick beard. “Who the fuck areyou?”
I look at my mom. The common denominator.
When she told me she was living in Ridgemont, I didn’t ask for any details. Where she was working. If she lived alone.
Is she married to this guy? Do they have kids? Do I have half-siblings?
Questions burning in my mouth like I swallowed acid. Questions I’m not sure I can stomach the answers to.
“Why are you here?” she asks me.
Soundingangryabout it. Like being in the same building as her son is a fucking inconvenience.
My jaw works angrily. “I’m here with a friend.”
“Go look after your friend, Holden.”
She continues walking, and that’sit. That’s the end of the third conversation with my mom that I remember.
I’m expecting her “friend” to follow. But he doesn’t. He remains standing a few feet away, sizing me up.
He kinda looks like my dad, which pisses me off. Broad shoulders. Trimmed beard. Brown hair.
“What?” I snap.
He shakes his head. “You coulda been nicer to your momma.”
“So you do know who I am.”
“Yeah.” He scratches his beard again. “She told me she had a kid.”
“Kids. She tell you she walked out on us too?”
“She explained the situation.”
I snort. “Explained the situation—there’s nothing toexplain. She left.”
“Life’s a bitch, kid. Learn that lesson.”
My fingers curl into fists as I resist the urge to punch his superior expression. Glance over one shoulder to confirm my mom is gone.
She’s always been good at walking away.
The one way in which she’s predictable.
