Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
She probably woke up, got stoned, and passed out again.
It wasn’t always like this. When I was little, Mom kept it together. The apartment was never neat, but it worked. I got fed, I made it to school, I had friends. Mom wasn’t coming to birthday parties and taking me to soccer practice, but she helped with homework sometimes and talked me through my first period. She wasn’t the best, but she wasn’t the worst.
That changed in high school. She’d always been a flighty hippie, but she got worse and worse as I was able to take on more responsibility. It was like she knew I could bring in money, take care of the house, essentially do everything she hated doing, and she crawled into herself. Or maybe she reverted back to what she’d always been, I don’t know.
Now she’s a spineless echo of the woman I knew when I was small.
Nadia texts a few more times but I ignore them. I start cooking lunch, making sandwiches for me and Mom, since she’ll be hungry soon. I hear her drag herself from bed not long later, using the bathroom, puttering around before stepping into the hall, her eyes bloodshot and sleepy, her hair messy. She smiles at me, another joint dangling from the corner of her lips.
“Morning, darling. Where’ve you been?”
“Had a meeting.”
“On a Saturday?”
“Someone’s got to work.”
She snorts and waves a hand. “The fucking man’s got enough little biddies to do his dirty work.”
“I do data entry for a salvage company, Mom.”
“Damn right you do.” She jabs a finger at me, eyes smiling. “You think they don’t know it? You got no other options.”
Unlike you, I don’t have a daughter to mooch off. “Do you mind not smoking in the house?”
She considers the joint quizzically. “This stuff? It’s all natural, you know that.”
“I know, but, Mom—“ I stop myself from saying, it’s bad for the baby, because she doesn’t know yet. “We’re going to get evicted if you keep it up.”
“Nah, it’s legal now. That fucking landlord scumbag has no legal standing. You hear me?! No legal fucking standing!” She waves a fist at the wall.
Someone pounds on the door.
I yelp in surprise. Mom’s face pales, her hand lowering. She gives me a sheepish grin.
“Guess he was listening,” she says, marching to answer the knock.
“Wait a second. At least put out the—“
I hear the chain pull back and the bolt snap. “Well, hello there, and who would you be?” Mom sounds delighted, which means that’s not Dennis here to answer her challenge.
“Hello, you must be Dawn, Angelina’s mother. My name is Connor Maguire—“
Holy shit.
I drop the knife I was using to cut a sandwich in half. It clatters to the floor. How long has it been since I left the coffee place? An hour? Maybe two? I took my time getting home, but he’s already here. What the hell is happening right now?
“—if you’re her boss, she’s got a better job than I realized,” Mom purrs as I wheel around the corner, wiping my hands on a towel.
I stop short. Connor’s in the hallway looking as incredible as he did when I left him. Mom’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, doing her pouty/flirty thing, which is gross and I’m not thinking about that. Connor’s eyes latch onto mine, and I feel like a fox in a trap as I try to think of some way out of this.
But there’s no escape.
Connor’s going to kill me.
“Do you mind if we come in? I have something very important to do with your daughter.”
“Not at all. Does he work with you as well?” Mom squints past Connor. “I didn’t know Catholic priests needed day jobs, but it’s no shock in this economy.”
Mom saunters past me, winking, mischief all over her face. She slumps onto the couch and relights her joint.
Connor follows her in, looking like sin, sex, and hell. Behind him is an older man, heavier, wrinkled, gray hair parted to the left. He’s wearing a gray jacket, black slacks, and a typical white priest collar. He peers at me nervously from behind his glasses. A Bible’s clutched against his chest.
“What’s going on right now?” I back away into my living room.
Connor takes in the space with distaste. His eyes drift to my mother and his expression hardens. “Put that out, please.”
“Put out what?” Mom exhales a plume of smoke. It hits the fan and drifts away.
“You can’t smoke around your daughter. You can’t smoke around my—“
“Okay! That’s enough! Mr. Maguire, I appreciate you making an unexpected house call, but maybe we can go talk in private?”
Connor ignores me. “Put it out, Dawn.”
“Okay, now you’re starting to annoy me. This is my house. This here is legal.” She waves the joint in the air. “Didn’t we just go over this, Angie? What’s with this guy?”