I ignored her complaints, and she turned up the television in response—some trashy reality show, it sounded like. I made my way into the kitchen with some trepidation and found it just as bad as I’d feared. Dishes were piled in the kitchen, as well as old takeout containers quickly becoming their own ecosystems. The fridge, when I opened it, was nearly bare.
I sighed heavily at the state of the place, then got to work. I did the worst of the dishes in the sink, then stuffed the old takeout into the overflowing trash and walked it do the dumpster. God, it fucking reeked. But once I walked back into the apartment, it already smelled a little less terrible—though nothing short of burning the place down would get rid of the cat-piss smell. Of course, Mom didn’t acknowledge it at all.
“Mom, I’m ordering groceries for you,” I said, already opening up the app on my phone. This song and dance was pretty familiar to me at this point. “Make sure you actually answer the door when they arrive tomorrow, all right?”
“You don’t have to tell me to answer the door, I don’t have dementia,” Mom said shortly.
I pushed down the annoyance. The anger was familiar, too. I did so much for her when I would have been within my rights not to—all I wanted was for her to acknowledge that. And of course, she wouldn’t, because she had to be to maintain the illusion of control. We’d fought about it so many times, I didn’t have the energy to keep fighting. Especially knowing she’d been deep in the bottle for most of the night. It just wasn’t worth it. I was used to her shitty attitude, and the way she blew me off, but tonight, it hurt more than it usually did.
It wasn’t bad enough for my friend and boyfriend to blow me off—now even my own family was.
“Did you order some smokes with the groceries?” Mom asked.
“No, Mom, I didn’t order you smokes online,” I said as I shoved my phone back in my pocket. “I did get more cat litter, though. Change the damn litter boxes, it reeks in here.”
“It’s my apartment,” Mom said. “Don’t give me any attitude, you’re not living here. Give me a twenty for smokes.”
“Jesus.” I wanted to push back, but it was easier just to give her the money and get out of here before I really blew my top. I opened my wallet and pulled out a twenty, then handed it to her with a roll of my eyes. She tucked it into her pocket. “All right, Mom, I’m heading out. Don’t let it get so bad again, okay? I’m not gonna come in here and save the day every time.”
“It was fine,” she said, as if she hadn’t texted me asking me for help. “It’s my business.”
“Right,” I said. “Whatever.”
And with that I left. Not even a goodbye, or a thank you. Why did I keep letting her rope me into doing that for her? If anything, I was enabling her. I knew that. But the guilt of knowing she might be actually hurt, or finally in need of real medical care, kept me going back to check on her. And she knew I would.
It was a vicious fucking cycle, and one I was too exhausted to figure out how to break.
I climbed into my truck and took a long moment outside the apartment. I gripped the steering wheel tight with both hands and tipped my forehead against it and fought down the anger and despair whirling in my chest, and the hot prick of tears. In the cold darkness of the car, I felt so fucking alone. Mom didn’t care, Brennan wasn’t here, Nix wasn’t here. I wasn’t a priority to anyone.
It felt selfish to even worry about it. It was pathetic that I still thought Mom might turn a corner and start to be grateful for all I did or maybe even want to rebuild our relationship, when all she’d done these past ten years was roll downhill. And I should be happy for Brennan, not jealous of his connection with Joker. And Nix…
Well, I really wanted to call him. But.
He’d said he wanted to be with me, sure. But that didn’t mean he would want to deal with me when I was like this. Moody and hurting and just—bad company. Why would he want to spend any time with this version of me? I didn’t even want to spend time with this version of me.
I sat up in the driver’s seat and took a deep breath, then exhaled it hard out my nose.
I was fine. I just needed a drink, to let myself calm down a little.
Luckily, Tempest was nearby. I pulled out of the apartment complex and drove straight there, my grip tight enough to turn my knuckles white around the steering wheel.
It wasn’t a long drive, but by the time I arrived, the desire for a drink had boiled over into a powerful urge. A need. It was like an itch under my skin—worse than the boredom was this feeling, this pain and inadequacy, and it was only going to get worse until I did something to stop it. And a drink was a sure way to tamp it all down.
I hurried into the bar. It was dark inside—which I liked—and busy, but not too crowded. I grabbed a seat at the sticky bar, and the bartender gave me a quick nod of acknowledgment. With the low music playing, and the familiar sounds of laughter and conversation, some of the anxiety in my chest began to ease. And then the bartender put down my usual order: a shot of whiskey and a tall, cheap beer.
I threw back the shot first. It burned all the way down, warm and familiar into my gut, and immediately the knot in my chest loosened. I took a sip of the beer as a chaser—cold, refreshing, a beautiful counterpoint to the burn of the booze. I waved at the bartender and ordered another shot.
He slid it to me, and I took it just as quickly. Then another.
With three shots in me, my brain finally began to slow down as the warm, familiar fog rolled in. It was some sweet relief from the pain that this entire night had brought. I finished the beer, got another, then—maybe irresponsibly—got another shot. By then, I was feeling a little unsteady on the stool, and a little dizzy. God, it was nice to just be around other people, though. To listen to their conversations and laughter. Just hearing it made me feel a little less lonely.
But with the booze running hot through my veins, I started to get a little lightheaded. I grabbed my beer and stood up, a little shakily, heading toward tiny smoking patio just to get some fresh air. As I picked my way carefully across the sticky floor of the bar, I lost my balance and stumbled toward the pool table, where one of the Empire guys was lining up a careful shot. I knocked into him just as he was going for the corner pocket, fucking up his shot and making the cue ball ricochet uselessly across the table.
“Hey, man, watch where you’re fuckin’ goin’!” the guy barked as he whipped around. His friends laughed at the fucked-up shot, declaring that no, he wouldn’t be allowed to reset and go again. “You fucked up my game.”
“Whatever,” I said, itching to get outside. “Relax. It’s just fuckin’ pool.”
“Relax?” the guy sneered at me, then squared up—his shoulders were broad enough to pull at the fabric of his leather jacket, and he had a short, slightly unkempt beard with a froth of beer foam in the mustache. “You better fucking apologize.”
“Fuck off,” I said, and waved a hand dismissively, then turned away, heading for the back door.
“Fuck off?” the guy repeated. Then he grabbed my shoulder and wrenched me backward, sending my pint glass clattering across the floor. “You watch your mouth, son. You’re in Empire territory.”