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I finish the last of the dishes just as it hits time for me to leave, and I pull out my phone to scroll through my contacts. It rings five or six times, and right before I hang it up, it clicks through and my mom’s voice comes down the line.
“Hello?”
“Mom, hey.”
There’s a lot of noise in the background, some screaming and yelling, nothing abnormal for the Huxley household.
“Who’s this?”
Leave it to Mom not to check her caller ID.
“Atlas, Momma.”
“Oh, Atlas, honey! How are you?” There’s some clanging around, and I think I hear her yell something at Zoe and Asher about fighting over the hockey stick.
And yes, I said, the hockey stick. Huxley Family Hockey isn’t played on the ice so much as we play hide-and-seek and whack-a-mole with one of Grandpa’s old sticks from the league a million years ago. You have to earn and/or steal the right to the stick and when you do… well usually everyone runs and hides because Huxleys get a little victory happy. Someone usually gets a couple good hits in before Dad makes us put it away and hide it.
Not that I’ve played in years.
“I’m good,” I say. “Sorry I didn’t make it home for Christmas.”
“You didn’t?” she asks, and yeah, that stings a little.
Before I left for college, she used to bitch all the time about Ryder being gone even though he popped in every weekend. Rue left not long after he turned nineteen, never looked back, and don’t think I ever even saw Momma bat an eye.
Maybe I’m the new Rue.
“Yeah. I’m sorry. I was just, um, really busy.”
“Well that’s okay sweetie! We’ll make sure to save you a spot this year. Bring that boyfriend of yours with you!”
I frown. “Boyfriend?”
“Oh, you know. The kid who used to sleep in your room every night.”
“Shiloh? Momma, he’s not my—”
The line fills with the sound of something crashing. “Oh, shoot. Sweetie, I’ll have to call you back. Love you. See you soon.”
And then she’s gone.
Boyfriend? Jesus, how long has my mother thought Shiloh and I were dating? Does Dad think so, too? What in the hell kind of assumption is that?
I don’t even have time to put the phone back in my pocket before it goes off again, and while a part of me hopes it might be Mom and we could actually talk, it brings a smile to my face to see that it’s Shiloh.
“Hey, Loh. How ya feelin’?”
He groans down the line, and I can absolutely imagine him giving me the finger.
“My head hurts. You took my alcohol.”
I click my tongue. “Yup, I did. Poured it straight down the drain. You know you can’t have that stuff, right? And you know I’m not just being an asshole?”
“You are an asshole. But you’re also right, and I hate you for it.”
“No you don’t.” My smile grows wider. He sounds tired, but he doesn’t sound pissed or anything anymore.
“No, I don’t.” He sighs, and I swear I can hear the smile in his own voice. “Could you bring me some brownies back? The caramel ones? And a coffee? Black?”
