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“I guess I could invite your brother over. He might cuddle with me.”
A snort escapes me with such force I nearly keel over in a coughing fit.
“My brother would have you pinned down before your little octopus hands could even touch him.”
“Kinky—and rude, Blair-Bear—but your brother actually likes me.”
“He tolerates you.”
“Same thing.”
I roll my eyes and tilt his chin up, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. “No. I like you, Noah. It’s why we have this.” I gesture between the two of us. “Shiloh likes that you’re easy to read at poker.”
“Oooh, could we play strip poker next time?”
I don’t bother to answer him, pushing his head down on my chest as he makes himself comfortable again.
I’d like more than this someday. Someone to sit and talk and touch, but who wants me in ways that are stronger than just hands on bodies.
But right now I barely have time to breathe, between classes and work and keeping Dad afloat at the trailer park. Noah says something’s gotta give, but if I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that something is usually me.
Nothing in the trailer park has changed since I was here a month ago. It hasn’t changed from six months ago. Not even four years ago. It’s like the rickety house parked on stilts with a half rotted deck is encapsulated in time at the worst version of itself.
I don’t need the key because Dad’s truck is parked out front and the door is already half cracked open. The air smells of stale cigarettes and weed mixed with the pungent aroma of those dangling car air fresheners that are hanging above each entryway.
I think he even lays them on top of the vents like it’s going to distract from the wet mold growing in the corners. I’d say the place smells like a dumpster, but that would be an insult to dumpsters.
“Dad?” I call out, picking up the half eaten to-go containers sitting on the coffee table.
When I round the doorway to the kitchen, that’s where I find him: sitting at the table with a model boat and screwdriver in his hands. It isn’t until I rap on the doorframe that he looks up, wire-rimmed glasses hanging low on his nose.
“Blair,” he grunts and turns back to his work.
At least the dishes aren’t piled high, but the ones that are sitting in the sink are still covered in food with flies buzzing around. On the plus side, the laundry machine is running, even if it’s thumping extra hard today.
I might have to look at it.
“Are you just going to stand there judging, or are you going to sit down?”
I sigh and pull out the chair opposite Dad.
“I’m not judging. Just seeing what needs to be done so I can help.”
“Don’t need your help.”
“Dad.”
He puts down the boat with a scowl on his face.
“Ain’t nothing needs to be done that can’t be done tomorrow.”
“I have work tomorrow. Let me help.”
Dad rolls his eyes and points the screwdriver at me.
“You’re always working. It’s why you never answer my calls and why you’re never here.”
I wouldn’t have to work so much if Dad could support himself. If he didn’t spend every dime of his disability fund on weed and miscellaneous junk that’s just going to end up piled on the floor anyway.
