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I was shocked when I heard how much my dad had tucked away at the will reading. Enough I can afford college without a basketball scholarship.
It should be a relief. Instead, it’s another thing I’m stressing about. I don’t see how I can leave now. Abandon Sydney. She shouldn’t have to stay home alone. Extended family offered to take her in—take both of us in—but that will require switching schools. No one lives close enough to Pembrooke High to make it a reasonable commute. I’m not asking her to do that, though I’m sure she’ll offer. It’s a conversation I’m dreading. A large part of me does want to leave, to get away from this town, and I’m sure Sydney recognizes that.
“You don’t think much of me,” my mom comments.
“Is that a surprise?” I ask, tone cutting.
“Not really.”
I inherited my bluntness from my mom, I guess. I’m worried about what else I might have inherited from her too.
“It’s easy to judge, Holden. It’s hard to be home with two toddlers. Your dad was always gone.”
“That’s not an excuse for abandoning your kids. Thereisno excuse for that.”
She shrugs. “I knew you were better off without me.”
That sentence hits me hard, with more force than anything else she could have said. Because that’s always what I’ve told myself when it comes to Cassia. It feels like I’m having a conversation with my own insecurities.
“I wasn’t meant to be a mother,” she continues. “I never wanted to be a mother. I was a kid, younger than you, when I had you.”
“What’s your point?”
“I don’t have one. I’m sorry—sorry you got me as a mother. Your dad promised me he’d be there. Instead, he was out. Working. Doing God knows what with God knows who.”
“Providing for us, you mean?”
“Your father wasn’t perfect, Holden. I know I’m a low bar. But me leaving forced him out of some bad habits. If I hadn’t, you would have ended up with two crappy parents, not just one.”
Part of me wants to ask what she means. But most of me doesn’t want to know. Delving into my parents’ train wreck of a relationship won’t bring my dad back or change who my mother is.
“You should go.”
“Okay.”
My mom doesn’t offer any resistance, and that stings, even though it shouldn’t.Sheabandonedme, and still there’s some part of me that doesn’t hate her. How can she feel nothing toward me?
She walks away, toward a black hatchback parked across the lot. I climb into the cab of my truck, not wanting her to see me standing here, watching her walk away from me again. Part of me wants to fling more questions at her, demand answers and apologies.
But I know none of them will be satisfying. She made a decision that can’t be undone. Even if she did regret it, it wouldn’t change anything. I don’t think I’m capable of forgiving that choice.
For a minute, I stew. I don’t want to go home. Can’t deal with watching Sydney go through my dad’s things or forcing smiles around me.
My emotions are swirling close to the surface. I need an outlet or some sort of release. If Declan hadn’t paused fights for the winter, I’d be texting him right now.
I turn on my truck and head for the old high school. The only stop I make is at the seedy liquor store on the fringe of town.
The guy behind the register recognizes me. Knows I’m in high school and underage. But he just eyes me with pity as I check out, not even asking to see my fake ID.
I’m so sick of the pity. Sick of a lot of things.
There’s no one else at the old courts when I pull up along the asphalt. It’s a sad sight. Faded lines and frayed hoop strings. A few tufts of grass have managed to survive in cracks in the court, tiny spots of life in the midst of an unforgiving surface.
I grab the whiskey bottle and the basketball I keep in the back of my truck and walk out onto the court. The lights flicker on, contending with the rapidly dropping sun. One of them is permanently out thanks to a stray shot Finn took. As far as the town is concerned, this place is out of commission. No one has come around to fix it.
I start dribbling, ignoring the chill in the air as I weave across the court, pretending to dodge and block invisible opponents.
Then, I start shooting. Every shot I miss, I take a sip of whiskey. The more I drink, the more I miss. The more I miss, the more I drink.
