“Sebastian!” Her attempt at a smile is watery, ruined by the tracks running down her cheeks. “I was hoping you’d come see me before you left. It is today, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I say, pathetically touched that she managed to keep track of time. “I’m about to head out.”
She covertly wipes her cheeks, trying another bright smile. It hurts to watch, these moments where she tries to pull herself together like a brave little toaster. “I’m glad, because I—I got you something. It’s here, see? Open it, see?”
I gingerly hold the envelope she thrusts in my hand, but can’t focus on anything but her wet eyes. “Mom, why are you crying?”
She flaps a hand. “Oh, you know how I get. It’s not important.” She pushes at the envelope, imploring, “Open it!”
“It is important,” I argue, but know better than to push by now. She probably spends half of her life crying. Depressive episodes like hers don’t come with a reason. That doesn’t mean I’ll stop asking.
Sighing, I tear open the envelope, revealing a gift card to the local pet supply store. I know instantly why, and it’s more of a gesture than anything. I probably have enough money in my bank account to buy the pet supply store—like, the entire business.
She meets my smile with her own—this one a touch more organic. “You be sure to feed those poor little kitties, now. Make sure they’re getting enough. Don’t skimp!”
“I won’t,” I promise, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “The cats are going to be just fine.”
“And send me some pictures!” she demands, eyes going bright at her own suggestion.
My mother frets like no other. The second I made an offhanded comment about the feral cat colony at school, she was fretting. She probably never stopped. That’s the thing about my mom. She can’t take care of anything—can barely take care of herself—but goddamn. She tries so fucking hard. A ceaseless thread throughout my life is the question of how someone with so big a heart managed to create a complete fucking sociopath like Heston. Sometimes I think he just left his soul with her, doubled it up, made it too big to handle all these harsh things in life. Sometimes I blame him for it—her sickness—and I know it’s not fair.
He only deserves the blame for making it worse.
It hurts to leave her, but in a way, it’s also a relief. This is the deal. If I live at school, Heston will leave her alone. He won’t talk to her. He won’t even look at her. He won’t poison her thoughts with his toxic tongue, driving her deeper and deeper into the darkness.
As I pull out the drive, I just remember her brave little toaster smile and tell myself it’s better this way.
I unload Jasmine and carry my bags back to the dorm, and it’s not so bad. A stark contrast to the rest of my family, I’ve never been a huge fan of manors and mansions and estates, anyway.
That being said, I did manage to upgrade rooms to a single—Hamilton Bates’s old suite—which allows me some extra amenities, like a separate living area.
“Hey, man,” Carlton says, sticking his head in the open door. “How was the doctor?”
Fucking Devils and their phone tree. How sad is it that a secret band of eleven fuck-ups, criminals, and sad sacks are a better family to me than my own flesh and blood?
Very.
“Fine. I didn’t get the all clear yet, but I should before the season starts.”
He nods, seeming satisfied with this. And then he looks around. “Christ, dude. This place is looking rough.”
“What?” I turn to the room, scratching idly at my jaw. “Nah, it’s not rough. It’s just—”
“Messy,” he finishes. “Yet somehow also weirdly empty. How do you even do that?”
I flip him off. “It’s a bachelor pad. Don’t be jealous you’re still sharing a double with Ben.”
“You need a couch. And a rug. And possibly an industrial-strength vacuum cleaner. How the fuck does the resident let you keep it like this? I get chewed out for a messy closet.”
I flash him a grin. “Money, power, influence—”
“The fact that he’s super gay and you have that face.”
I shrug, not bothering to deny it. I’m cute as fuck, so sue me. But Carlton does have a point. There are empty pizza boxes on the floor—no table yet—and socks strewn everywhere. It doesn’t look like someone lives here, so much as someone’s been… squatting. I rub the back of my neck, looking over the room. “I guess I’m not really here much.”
I don’t need to say why.
Liesel used to say that my mom has the downs, but I have the ups.
It feels like I can’t stay still. Being down this long because of the concussion has been a first. I don’t have anything to ease this electric, turbulent thing flowing through my veins. The second I step through this threshold, I get the itch to leave, find something to do. I’m not the kind of person who sits in his room, fucking around. I go out, I fuck, I fight, I find something to get into. These days, that list keeps growing shorter and shorter.
Carlton must sense this, because he suddenly says, “So there’s this meet-up tonight. Under the Peach Street bridge. Midnight.”
I perk instantly at this, my frustration melting away. “Oh yeah? You taking the ‘Vette?” I’d helped Carlton find this sweet ’68 Corvette that needed a lot of work but is on its way to glory.
“I probably won’t race it, not until I upgrade the engine, but I’m going to show it.” He leans against the door. “You should bring the Shelby.”
Jasmine. My Ford Shelby. God, she’s the most beautiful thing in my life. I do like showing off my girl. “Yeah, okay. We’ll have to get around Buster.” The ancient campus security guard is notorious for being slow and tired but can still put a wrench in any good plan. “How about we just meet down there.”
“Good idea.” He holds up a fist for me to bump before wandering off down the hall.
Carlton’s the one who got me into the car meet-ups. They’re a mixture of street racing, burnouts, and car show. He found out about them through his side hustle—selling weed and pills—because it’s a good place to push product. He invited me down because I was idle. Bored. Angry. Fucking painfully restless. Unable to fight due to the last concussion, I had to pull back on my workouts, and other than a few hook-ups here and there, I’ve had fuck-all going on.
The meet-ups are pretty last minute, passed through word of mouth around the community. Carlton’s usually the first to know, since everyone wants him there with his merchandise. It’s not at all unlike fighting. The whole set up is illegal and a complete, sloppy rush. Once the crowd converges, the roads are blocked, and mayhem explodes. It’s a massive adrenaline rush, and it’s not the same. It’s not physical enough to even come close to the fighting. But sometimes, when my hands are on the wheel and the smell of rubber burns my lungs, I can almost feel this dark, angry thing burning itself out of me.
But the best part, by far, is that my brother has no fucking clue this world even exists. It’s the one thing in my life he hasn’t tainted yet.