But I’m guessing trying to bang your cougar of a doctor is probably not the best display of good decision-making skills—something I’ve been trying to build.
Well.
Halfheartedly, anyway.
“Thanks,” I reply, trying to sound aloof. I glance around the room, my eyes landing on the fake ficus in the corner. Although it’s the third of January, it’s still decorated cheerily for Christmas, little shiny bulbs hanging from the thin branches.
“How was the end of first semester?” she asks. “Everything go okay?”
Well, Doc, let’s see. I joined a secret society, got a tattoo, committed no less than five crimes, received and gave oral in the Stairway to Hell, pulled an epic prank on my school, got in a few fights, burned my brother, got burned by my brother, made a few new friends, and oh right, recovered from this concussion. My second one in six months. Hence, the visit.
“Pretty okay,” I reply blandly. “Chill.”
She pulls out her little light and flashes it in my eyes. “How have the headaches been?”
“Better, I guess.” I shift on the table, making the paper sheet crinkle. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
She gives me a stern glance over her glasses. “You have had a series of concussions, Sebastian. It’s not about what you can handle. It’s about making sure that your condition is improving.”
“I’m improving,” I say, just wanting her off my back.
“How?”
She wants details. “No more dizziness, no puking. My light sensitivity is…” Shit. Total shit. “…a lot better. I’ve stopped fi—playing lacrosse and altered my conditioning.” I peek up at her to make sure she didn’t catch the slip. I haven’t been in a fight or played lacrosse in two months. She just doesn’t strictly know about the fights.
“How’s your vision?” She’s taking notes on a sheet of paper. I lean forward, curious, but she shifts away.
“Twenty-twenty.” I flash her my best panty-melting grin.
Ah, she’s a tough one. She barely reacts. “Uh huh. Any school issues? Memory loss? Irritability?”
Memory loss? I fucking wish. That’d make my life easier. But even with a head injury, I’m not lucky enough to have the one symptom that’d actually help.
“Doc.” I level her with a look. “I’m fine. Seriously. I’m following all the rules. I’ve never felt better, because I’m in peak physical condition.” I drag my lip through my teeth, eyes roaming down her tight doctor body. “If you don’t believe me, you can check me over again.”
She gives me another look, this one full of disbelief, but puts the pen and paper away. Crossing her arms, she says, “Although I’m not sure I’m buying that you’ve completely slowed down, I do think you’re recovering nicely.”
My eyebrows lift. “Does that mean I have the go-ahead on lacrosse?”
A line forms between her eyes and matches the one set between her lips. “I think you need to take it easy for one more month—”
“Another month!” I start.
“—then we’ll test again, and if everything looks nice and healed, I’ll release you to the team.” I make no attempt to hide my annoyance and she continues, “I know you don’t realize it, Sebastian, but your brain health is very important. Even though you don’t care about bashing your head in all the time, the rest of us want to make sure you have a happy, healthy, productive life.”
I wonder who’s included in the ‘us’ she’s talking about here. My dad? Eh. My mom? Yeah, she’d probably care if she could, but she can’t. Heston? I choke back a laugh. He’s the reason I’m in this situation in the first place. The truth is, the only people who truly give a shit are the woman standing in front of me right now, and a handful of Devils.
“Thanks for the vote of encouragement, Doc,” I say, reaching for my shirt. “I’ll give it one more month.” Despite being a huge fucking bummer, this isn’t technically a huge problem. I’ve been working more and more down at the garage on Jasmine anyway, and the Devils take up some of my time. As long as I get back on the field by the first of February, it’ll be fine.
It has to be fine.
“How’s she doing today?” I ask, casting a wary glance at the ceiling, toward Mom’s room on the second floor. I can’t hear anything, which is always a good sign.
Liesel, our head of housekeeping, follows my gaze. “Well, your brother was here earlier.”
I shift my shoulders, popping the joint. “Fuck.”
“It wasn’t as bad as all that,” she assures me in her thick accent. “He didn’t even go up to see her. Lucky. Nasty piece of work, he is. Always picking on the poor woman.” Liesel shakes her head disapprovingly. She’s in her fifties now, but still has the same stern face I remember when I was kid. She’s the complete opposite of my mom. Liesel’s got pure steel running through her veins. She comes to work every day in sharp, structured blazers, and doesn’t stick around long enough to know just how far beyond ‘picking’ Heston likes to take things.
I mutter, “Tell me about it.”
“It might help if you stuck around this year,” she tells me, yet again, shaking a finger in my face. “Mothers need their children.”
I can hardly contain my laugh. “Yeah, sure.” Maybe Mom needs me, but Heston? What a riot. “Can’t, though. I’m going back today.”
Liesel throws her hands in the air, muttering something sharply German under her breath as she walks away.
If she knew the deal, she’d probably understand. I don’t live at Preston because I want to. I live there because it’s the only way I can give my mom some measure of peace.
You’d think our property—a converted golf club of eight total buildings—would be sprawling enough to keep Heston and her from ever needing to be in the same room. He could take the pool house. He could have lived in the cottage at the back of property and had himself a grand old fucking time. He could have even probably scored the entire length of the main house’s basement, which has two kitchens, four bathrooms, a pool, and enough space to comfortably entertain both the swim and football teams.
But no, not Heston. His top priority when it comes to accommodations is having someone close enough to torment. I almost feel bad for the people he’s going to college with—a new, exciting spread of victims for him to play with. Almost. I’m currently too engaged with worrying about his current victims to give it much thought.
My mom’s rooms are separate from my dad’s, and for as long as I was old enough to notice, always have been. It’s a sweet setup consisting of its own living space, but I can’t stand the way she holes up in there.
When I climb the massive staircase and walk my way to the heavy double doors, I take a moment to prepare myself.
She’s not dressed, but that’s no surprise. The blinds are still closed and it’s smoky, the stale scent of cigarettes hanging thick in the air. She’s sitting in the chaise in her silk robe, trying to gather her hair up. Putting herself together. Trying to make it seem not so bad.