Micky’s lip curled up in disgust at Miles’ response, passing the blunt to him.
“I ain’t having a baby.” The bloodline might not end with her, but goddamn it if she was the one to continue it. Micky? As a mother? She’d rather die. The stretching, the whole oh shit I have to take care of some shitty little feral rat who can’t even talk thing…no thank you. She’d already basically had to raise her little brat half-brothers or whatever the hell—or her mom had at least tried to make her raise them. Hell no.
Micky chuckled, rolling onto her stomach and propping her head up on her fists. “Mm, but you might have luck with Ariana,” she said, giving her half-sister’s name a thick Spanish accent. She smiled slightly. “Her and that prissy bitch boy toy who she’s not claiming…they might make that dream come true.”
Honestly, Micky wouldn’t be surprised—she’d just literally, like, fall over and cackle and call it karma because it was honestly what the whore deserved.
“Okay, I’m going to ask you this,” Micky said, her eyes narrowing as a surefire sign that she was about to say something offensive, “and I want you to answer honestly: what do you think that Ari thinks that she’s accomplishing by prancing around with the Freud asshat and then ‘not putting a label on it’? They’re up each other’s asses all of the time—it’s not like it’s a secret or whatever.”
Her pale gaze turned on him as he spoke, her eyes kind of squinting together, her jaw dropping slightly because like, oh my god, could he be anymore out of touch and reality? Who wanted to read boring stuff like that?
Romance and stuff was cute, and happy, and it was what everyone wanted to read, which is why it was the most popular genre.
(She didn't actually know if it was, but Margot assumed it was -- and as long as you used romance as a really broad thing.)
"Do... you read books on cooking and repair work?" There was a near biting remark there, where she was going to insult her dad's cooking skills and repair skills -- but she held her tongue, because Margot wasn't entirely stupid. Some part of her still knew that her dad had a bit of a touchy ego, and mentioning that reading a book might help his car run a little better was probably a bad idea.
"You know what'd be really good, though?" Margot suggested, eyes lighting up at her little idea. "A book about motorcross where the girl like, leaves her boyfriend for a dude on the opposite team."
(She had no idea how motorcross really worked.)
"Oh, and then the girlfriend is pregnant, and it's like, omg who's the dad?"
Lin was so cool, and Colby wished that a little bit of that coolness had rubbed off on him.
'Cause maybe if it had, then Micky would actually give him the time of day instead of being up Axel's ass (every now and again, of course, not all the time, not literally, 'cause Micky was too cool to be like that).
His dad really had to of been the coolest dude in all of Pretoria Heights.
(He was certainly pretentious enough to be the king.)
Lin pulled some sunglasses from his shirt pocket, and they were so freaking cool, and then -- get this -- he OFFERED them to Colby. Held them out, asked if he wanted them, and a grin widened on Colby's face. 'Cause truly, his dad had to be messing with him right now -- 'cept he wasn't. "Really?" he said, as he hesitantly took the glasses. "Shit, thanks, Lin," he said, that rolling off his tongue easier than the d-word.
(He could say dad in his mind, but letting the word touch his tongue in relationship to Lindsay felt wrong.)
(It was complex -- leave him alone.)
He slipped the sunglasses on, and Colby knew that his Hot-O-Meter was gonna go off the charts now.
“Like her?” Lin asked, resting his hand on the car that Colby admittedly... didn't know anything about. Cars were cars. “She’s fresh. Bought ‘er two weeks ago. Got tired of only having five cars.”
Colby let out a low whistle, patting the hood of the car. "She's real nice," he commented, although he was really just trying to sound cool for Lin. He smiled in his direction, leaning against the car. "You ah... thinking about retiring one of those cars? 'Cause my birthday's coming up, ya know. And I'll need a sweet ride."
He should... say something, interject to stop this petty argument between Adriane and Nickie, except--
Well, it was kind of hot. And entertaining. And at the very least, maybe Adriane's territorial, hissy attitude would manage to scare Nickie off for the week. Or longer than the week. Maybe she'd just become one of those cool coparents that stayed in the fucking car when dropping off their teen who could've come here all by themselves, but no, when he suggested that, he was suddenly a terrible parent and--
Deep breaths.
His hand kind of went to rest on the small of Adriane's back, and he relaxed against the doorframe as he listened. Because, well, what was a man to do?
Nickie was currently hitting every single one of his last nerves, and she would continue to do so -- ya know, until Adriane packed her things up and disappeared into the dead of night, leaving him sad and alone, and Ari angry. It was just the way that their relationship rolled, and Mason knew what would come after that.
He'd, ahem, participate in the very thing with Nickie that had destroyed their marriage.
You know, adultery.
Mason would've felt worse for her poor husband, if his head wasn't so far up their neighbor's ass that he didn't notice the obvious signs of cheating.
"Hey, maybe we should just--"
But he didn't manage to finish his sentence as Adriane, not paying attention to him, just continued.
Yes, Adriane recognized the hypocrisy in that statement.
"Oh, sweetie," she giggled. "My eyes are up here, but I'm so sorry that you're jealous. See, you could've had normal looking boobs, but you decided you'd rather be an incubator for a fucking coke addict."
"Listen, you might have to suck dick to support your hubby's, umm... hobbies and the horde of kids that you keep pawning off on Micky, but just because you're miserable, there's no reason to project on me." A false smile played across Adriane's lips, and she let go of Mason, stepping back to grab the door, which she started to shut as she squeezed her way in front of Mason, and he took a couple steps back.
Nickie's hands moved to her hips in a oh boohoo, little kid pouty way.“So did you, like, just come to, like, give the highway traffic some, like, softcore porn in the doorway, or, like, were you just so excited to see me that you, like, couldn’t resist trying to play it cool?”
"I actually came because Nate DMed me saying that he wasn't happy because you kept crying during sex." Adri let out a breathy sigh. "Some things really never change, hm?"
was all Jay said as dust (which was probably asbestos) rained down around them.
Jay went to start lowering his brother to the ground, partially so he could clear some of the dust from his eyes, until Donna had him stand straighter -- which, naturally, he did. He was squinting through the dust, curious as to what his brother was doing as he started reaching around in the ceiling.
"Shit, did you find a dead raccoon? That'd really freak him out, bro, nice find." He commented with a grin, although really, the find could be attributed to Jay and his terrible lifting skills. Just sayin'.
Eventually, his brother pulled something from the depths that was not a dead raccoon. Nay, it wasn't a dead animal at all. It was stupid, dusty old book. Jay frowned as he dropped Donna back to the ground, his hands coming to rest on his hips in a really disappointed fashion. "Who the hell hides a yearbook in the ceiling, huh?" he asked, scoffing and rolling his eyes. He gave a dismissive wave of his hand, agreeing with his brother's statement.
Boring old yearbook--
“Hey, wait,” Donna said, and then he held the book in front of Jay's face. “Isn’t this the year Dad graduated or somethin’?”
He blinked, pulling his head back a bit so he could actually read the year, and he kind of squinted. "Ahh... shit, I think so?" He said, except the only extent of the year that their dad had graduated that Jay remembered was when his dad was all "that was the year we won playoffs" and blah blah, casually mentioning his boring ol' football career, while Jay just inwardly rolled his eyes.
As if his dad had ever been good. Pfft.
"Open it up," Jay demanded, quickly snatching the book from Donna's hands and flipping it open. He started thumbing through the pages, until he came to the senior class, and started moving down the names, until...
"Oh fuck-- look," he said, jabbing his finger down at a picture of one Chelsea Freud.
God, Mike could never understand how kids’ brains worked.
Sure, he was a kid like that—well, when he was a kid, ‘cuz he was never a kid like that—but he swore to God that he had never been so one-track-minded about dumb shit like…what, teen media tropes? Who was, gasp, kissing who, who was, gasp, getting pregnant by who? Yeah…when he was a kid, it was never that fucking deep. He fucked whoever, they fucked whoever, and that was life. It had never been that fucking deep, and it never should be, and really, it wasn’t that interesting. All smutty, shitty brain rot would probably mean that his daughter would wind up knocked up by the time she hit Axel’s age if she was the type to interact with, ya know, anyone who wasn’t a weirdo book nerd girl.
Thank fucking God that she was only really friends with Nate’s little kid, so he didn’t have to worry about being a forty-two-year-old grandfather.
Mike snickered at her idea for a book. “Nnnnnnyeahhhh, I’m sure that would be a hit,” he said, trying not to make it obvious from his voice how disingenuous he was being because holy shit was that one of the worst ideas he’d ever heard, even for brain-melting teen shit. He nodded as though genuinely into it. “And the dad would actually wind up being the minor character from the beginning, and it was just a one-night stand gone wrong.”
Or whatever the fuck.
The clunker screeched into the parking lot, and Mike parked at the far end of the lot.
Was he trying to increase the likelihood that he could get enough distance between himself and Margot crossing the parking lot that maybe no one would even know that the damn kid was his? Maybe—but don’t act like you wouldn’t fucking do it, too.
“You got your money, kid?” he asked, looking at his daughter over his shoulder as he popped open the car door.
The last thing Ash really wanted in her house was a copy of Trevor's book,
especially when it had poems in it that were... well, they clearly alluded to her and that was simply too much for her to be able to really handle without, like, losing her lunch.
"Oh, that's... fine," Ash said, as she brushed a lock of hair out of her face, a smile on her face. "I'm not really much of a reader, and the boys would probably burn it-- not, because they umm... hate your writing or anything, but because they umm... symbolism. They're very symbolic of... reading."God, even Ash didn't believe any of that for a second, and she winced inwardly.
... Perhaps she should just out her boys, to get away from this oh so awkward experience.
Ugh.
She reached forward, picking up the poetry book he'd placed on the desk, and she flipped it open to a random page.
God she wanted to die.
"The Stars... Said Your Name?" Ash read the title of the poem, an eyebrow tilting up as her eyes lifted up to meet Trevor's. "What was the name they said? Hmm?"
The boys had two minutes before she gave up and left.
“Ohmigod, I’m five months pregnant, bitch. Hello?” She gestured emphatically to her protruding stomach. “Did you miss that memo? Come up with better lines.”
She crossed her arms across her chest. “Plus, Nate has better sense than to fuck you when he has me. You know. His fucking wife? Who he’s, like, legally bound to for, like, eternity or whatever?”
Like that meant shit to Adriane, who couldn’t even commit to something if her life depended on it—and who also lacked basic effing respect, too.
Her upper lip lifted in a disgusted sneer as she looked at Mason, then back to Adri. “He’s not a balding, reeking, shit-faced, rat-faced cheater fucking womanizer, so you’re out of luck if you’re, like, looking to try and steal him from me.” She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “But your type seems to always fucking be whatever man I have. Jealous bitches like you can never be happy.” She smiled pleasantly. “Go die in a hole, bitch. Nobody wants you around.”
Trevor had…well, he had been through so much shite.
Genuinely. Half of it, he still wouldn’t own up to. He pushed those thoughts and memories out of his head every time they arose, because the last thing he wanted to do was remember that time in his life. Those eight, nine, ten years didn’t exist as far as he was concerned; he was twenty-two, and suddenly he was thirty-two, and the in-between wasn’t something that deserved to be remembered. It was the time where he’d lived the most life and died the most death, and neither the highs nor the lows were something that he wanted to keep catalogued.
So hearing the name of one of the first poems he’d written in that time period was like a cymbal played beside his ear: shocking to his system and calling out from his mind, just for an instant, a primordial fear. He tensed, his heart racing, his eyes widening in slight surprise as Ash met his eyes.
“What was the name they said? Hmm?” Ash asked, and those words called Trevor back to reality.
“Oh,” he said, though he didn’t intend to say it aloud. He lifted a hand up to rub his neck, ducking his head slightly and chuckling softly, losing the facade he’d had of being all put together and on top of things for just a moment. “Heh, well…”
He regained his composure, lifting his head and looking at Ash again. He cleared his throat. “Let’s see…” He leaned back in his chair, looking at the ceiling. “Mmm…Reflected in the endless surface, caught like insects in a web, the stars say the words I dread hearing, yet live to hear. Fingers tap in the liquid, sending the image rippling. Champagne and whiskey; revive me, kiss me. Your name is in my mouth again—and in the morning, when I smell you on my breath, in the haze, I will fill in the blanks, make up the time myself. And I will go and read the stars again, and find your scent in my bottomless glass.”
He paused a long moment, overwhelmed by his own words for a second, and then he drew in a sharp breath. “What was the name they said?” he asked Ash. “You tell me.”
Donna peered down over Jay’s head to read the yearbook.
Unfortunately, Donna really kinda needed glasses, so he couldn’t make out too many of the details, except when Jay jabbed his finger at some picture of a dude and held it up for Donna to see.
Donna’s mouth gaped, and he took the book from his brother to stare at the picture of…was that really his dad? “He looks like a…preppy asshole,” Donna laughed, and he shoved his legs off of his brother and plopped to the ground with a whump! He held the book up for his brother to see again. “Shit, man, we hit the jackpot of blackmail.”
He cocked his head at his brother. “If Dad was a senior, Mom would’a been…?” Donna shook his head and flipped back a couple of pages. He scanned the pages rapidly, huffing slightly when each page had neither a Freud nor a West on it. Flip, flip, flip—
What the hell was that?
Donna’s brows knit together, and he flipped back a page to the page that caught his eye.
He stilled.
Lin’s grin widened on his face, and he let out a cackle.
“You want one’a them?” he asked, and he let that question there, opening up the scissor doors and dropping himself in the driver’s seat. He breathed in a deep breath as he closed the doors. Griselda smelled like fuckin’ heaven, dude.
Lin revved the engine loudly, chuckling at the noise. “Wake up, suburb fuckers!” he called, pounding his horn with a flat palm, and then he abruptly shifted into reverse, exited BItchasstraitor’s driveway, shifted into drive, and floored it.
“How’s this for a sweet ride?” Lin said to his son, though he kinda had to yell to speak over the sounds of the engine and the road. “Sweet as hell, right?”
Once they’d been driving aimlessly on the road for a couple of minutes, Lin looked over to Colby, grinning slightly. “So whaddoya wanna do?” he asked boyishly, one hand barely on the wheel, the other messing with the air conditioner.
Maybe he liked when his cousin visited, 'cause she was always asking questions, and making him think real hard.
Miles took the blunt from Micky, taking a hit off the thing. He exhaled out the window, 'cause again, he was not about to get in trouble for being up here smoking weed. With a sigh, he sat down on the edge of the windowsill, lazy smile on his face.
Well, he guessed their lineage ended here, then.
... Miles figured that might be for the best, actually.
“Mm, but you might have luck with Ariana,” she said, as Miles took another hit off the blunt. “Her and that prissy bitch boy toy who she’s not claiming…they might make that dream come true.”
He choked on the smoke in his lungs, bringing a fist up to his mouth as he coughed and laughed. "Shit, Mick," was all he managed to say at first, although she really wasn't wrong. "How dumb ya think their kids would be?" he asked, although... he didn't really wanna think about that. "Fuck, imagine Ari all prissy and shit livin' in one of those-- wait, Mick." His eyes widened, wide grin on his face.
Miles put the blunt out against the edge of the window, and dropped it onto the sill as he hopped over by Micky. "That's how we get into a real rich person's house, ya know? Ari puts out, gets knocked up, they get married, and then bam, wham, thank you, ma'am, we're livin' the real high life." He let out a soft laugh, sinking to the ground with that smile still plastered goofily on his face.
“Okay, I’m going to ask you this,” Micky said, and Miles lulled his head over to look at her once again, “and I want you to answer honestly: what do you think that Ari thinks that she’s accomplishing by prancing around with the Freud asshat and then ‘not putting a label on it’? They’re up each other’s asses all of the time—it’s not like it’s a secret or whatever.”
"I dunno," he admitted, crossing his arms over his chest, a small frown pressed against his lips. "That weird ass ahh... Hank guy -- you know, the one from Arkansas -- yeah, so, he was hittin' her up. Messagin' her and shit, and she blocked him. Didn't respond or anything. 'Course, he's kinda weird, like... I heard he ate a squirrel once, so I dunno. Guess Donna's better than that, right?"
Micky cackled—like, really fucking let loose a genuine cackle.
Full on cartoon green witch on Halloween cackled. “Genius fucking plan!” she said. “Just get her knocked up and we’re as set as all of those dumbass Freuds. And then I won’t even have to marry some old creepy fart—I’ll just skip right to drinking in a blue ass pool surrounded by models.”
She rolled onto her back again. “His name is Donna, too. You act like Hank was bad, but at least his name isn’t the name of a middle-aged woman.” Micky kicked her legs in the air. “What’s up with that? It’s like, if I say, Oh, yeah, Ari’s getting it with Donna, it sounds like I’m saying that she’s having an affair with a cig-addicted wino who works at the dollar store.” She laughed. “But, to be honest…”
There was a commotion outside, and Micky trailed off, tuning into the noise with the assumption that it was probably Ari talking on the phone or something.
“Plus, Nate has better sense than to fuck you when he has me. You know. His fucking wife? Who he’s, like, legally bound to for, like, eternity or whatever?”
Micky stilled. She drew in a long, deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to tune the noise out now. Why the fuck couldn’t her mom keep her mouth shut? She always had to try and fucking ruin things.
But Micky was tuned in, and her ears refused to tune the yelling out, even though she squeezed her eyes shut.
“He’s not a balding, reeking, shit-faced, rat-faced cheater fucking womanizer, so you’re out of luck if you’re, like, looking to try and steal him from me. But your type seems to always fucking be whatever man I have. Jealous bitches like you can never be happy.”
Micky’s heart throbbed in her chest. She sat up, holding her head and closing her eyes, trying to steady her breath.
but at least he could recognize a good idea when he heard one. Satisfied with his answer, she settled back, eyes brightening only momentarily at his added on idea. 'Cause, like, that would totally be perfect wouldn't it?
As they pulled into the parking lot, Margot was thankful that her dad had picked a spot that was so far back. At least, like, no one would see her walking with her stupid dad, and no one would happen to see their stupid piece of shit car. Like sure, kids at school knew approximately where she lived, and they knew that her family wasn't super well-off, but like... there was no reason to give them ammo for teasing, right?
“You got your money, kid?” her dad asked as they hopped out of the car, and Margot couldn't help but roll her eyes.
"Duh," she said, patting her pocket which was filled with the crumpled dollar bills that she'd received here and there from when she'd coax allowance or lunch money out of her parents, and also from the occasional time that she'd agree to babysit other families' kids for an hour or so.
Margot really wasted no time in hurrying up, her steps picking up speed and distancing herself more from her father as she made her way to the bookstore. She paused only briefly, looking left then right, just to make sure no cars were coming before she crossed the street and slipped into the bookstore. The sweet smell of books comforted her, a soft smile crossing her face.
Mason had wandered away when their argument was clearly not reaching an end anytime soon,
and Adriane was not above slapping a pregnant chick.
She huffed, her lips pressing into a tight line as she stepped out onto the porch, and pulled the door shut behind her with a loud, sharp slam. Her arms crossed over her chest, Adriane moving into Nickie's space to not so kindly hopefully get her off of their fucking porch.
“But your type seems to always fucking be whatever man I have. Jealous bitches like you can never be happy.” Nickie stated. “Go die in a hole, bitch. Nobody wants you around.”
"You literally fuck my leftovers," Adriane pointed out, a finger jutting back in the direction of the house. "Mason? Mine first. Nate?" she trailed off, just plastering a smile on her face to -- hopefully -- leave Nickie's imagination up to herself. (Because let's be honest, they would've hooked up at some point in high school, with both Nate and Adriane getting around quite a bit.)
As for her second comment, well...
"And I dunno. That little daughter of yours? Micky? When was the last time she asked to do literally anything with you?" she asked, because well, Adri knew that Micky liked her. And Micky was kind of like the daughter she'd always wanted. Bitchy, prideful, and she loved to tag along with Adriane.
No thanks for making sure that I have money that I mooched off of you anyway, Dad, I really appreciate it, Dad. No I need fucking money to buy shit that I don’t need so thanks for checking, Dad. Not even a thanks for driving me too on your fucking day off instead of going and doing something that you actually should fucking be doing, Dad, sorry Mom’s a bitch, Dad, actually we can go home and you can have the fucking drink you deserve, Dad. Just duh.
Jesus fucking Christ, this fucking kid.
Rolling his eyes, Mike hefted himself out of his clunker and slammed the door, letting it finish its rattling before shoving his key into the key lock. He glanced around, and he continued glancing around nonchalantly as he went about his routine for locking the beat-up piece of shit, gingerly sticking his key back in the key lock and wiggling it from left to right until he heard the telltale click. He sighed deeply and shoved his key in his pocket, and he followed after his daughter toward the fucking bookstore.
When he stepped through the automatic doors, he was immediately assaulted by the smell of overpriced hipster coffee and the image of his daughter smiling at the pocket-draining brain-melting moneyholes that sat under out-of-touch headings like #WHOAREYOUSHIPPING and OMG NEW READS!!.
Fucking kill me.
As they made their way down into an aisle, a particularly guady book on caught Mike's eye. His brow furrowed as he read, "Red, White, and Royal Blue?" He noted the bright pink ONE OF OUR BESTSELLERS! label beside the book. "Bestseller, huh?" He glanced at his daughter, and he picked it up and began to read the back. He squinted, and then, after a few more seconds, reared his head back in confusion. "I—" He blinked and read a few more lines, and then, thoroughly confused and mildly revolted, he held the book up in his hand and looked at Margot. "Jesus, kid, what in..." He tried to think of a word that wasn't an expletive, but none came up, so he left that sentence where it sat. "This sh—crap is a bestseller?"
Yeah, fuck, these tears were angry—angry. Goddamn it, she could fucking vomit. Seriously, was this bitch serious? Nickie scoffed out a laugh. “Micky is my fucking daughter? So, like, of course she loves me. She lives with me. She, like, fucking loves me. She—“
Nickie’s throat tightened, and she choked on the words that she was trying to get out of her mouth. The tears thickened in her eyes; her lungs refused to let her push out air. The image of Adri in front of her wavered behind the film.
When…was the last time Micky asked to do literally anything with me…?
Nickie scoffed, shaking her head and drawing in a sharp breath, refusing to let herself let go of a single fucking tear. Her brows knit low over her eyes. “She fucking loves me, because I actually fucking stuck around.” Her words were bitter, angry. “I actually fucking stuck around, Adriane, instead of running off like a scared fucking puppy once I popped out a fucking baby.” She half-laughed, half-scoffed. “I fuck your leftovers? At least I’m woman enough to be a fucking mother. At least I’m a fucking mom, bitch—what are you, the same skank you’ve been for the last thirty years plus pounds of fucking plastic? You say I’m, like—I’m fucking your leftovers?” She jabbed a finger at Adri’s chest; Nickie’s eyes were burning. “You fucking ditched your own literal fucking child! Literally fucking—I fucking was her mom more than you were, bitch!” Her voice was cracking wildly, and she lost complete control of the tears that she’d been holding back. “Like, oh, like, Mason is, like, my leftovers—like, bitch, it’s not like you gave a single—a single s-shit about him!” Nickie looked straight into Adri’s eyes as she screamed. “He was my whole fucking life, do you understand that?! He was my whole. Fucking. Life. And you’re just some fucking wormy slut who no one remembers unless your legs are spread open on a box-spring mattress.”
For a moment, Nickie paused, and in that pause, she became aware of herself again: the fact that her face was burning, the fact that her eyes were dropping tears, the fact that she was standing far too close to Adri, the fact that she’d just been fucking screaming, the fact that she could really fucking vomit right now. She drew in a sharp, snotty breath, and then breathed out a long breath, and then, as her lip curled up again, in a voice quieter but dripping with hatred, bitterness, jealousy, and disgust, Nickie asked, “What’s so fucking special about you?”
As he recited the poem, Ash grew sick to her stomach.
Her fingers tightened on the book, her muscles tensing unknowingly.
In some way, listening to his words made her feel like that dumb little teen again -- the one that had stupidly thought that dating him was an actually good idea. God, she'd been so stupid, and she realized that sitting here and entertaining him in the way that she was... it was, well... it was also insanely stupid.
“What was the name they said?” he asked Ash. “You tell me.”
Slamming the book shut, Ash dropped it onto his desk and abruptly stood up. Once more, Ash smoothed her skirt out, and she figured that the boys could just apologize tomorrow -- if they still weren't back, anyway, and Ash could get away from Trevor. And likely snap at her sons for leaving her alone with their creepy English teacher for so long.
Because that's all he was anymore. Just their English teacher for one more year, and then Ash would deal with him again when Chelsea was this age, and then they'd be done. Forever.
"We both know what name it was," she said, her voice somewhat cold. "Goodbye, Mr. Callaghan. My husband will drop our sons off at your poetry reading this Friday, and I'm really hoping that this will be our last meeting under the... under any circumstances."
With a tight lipped smile in his direction, she stepped away from the chair and headed towards the door. As she opened it and, again, was met with the image of her sons gone, she paused to look back in his direction.
"They'll apologize tomorrow," she stated, "and really, it's not too late for you to move on. It was high school."
And with that, Ash stepped out into the hallway, letting the door shut behind her with a soft click before she started down the hallway.
"Jace, Donna," Ash hissed, her voice somewhat low so as to not alert Trevor to her not knowing where her freaking sons were.
There was something real trippy 'bout this whole situation, ya know?
Seeing the tired, sunken eyes of their uncle, with his name plastered underneath.
Donahue Freud.
His picture in the yearbook had been scribbled across, a giant red x crossed over him. There was a sort of sinking feeling in his stomach, 'cause it was real weird to see the guy that his brother was named after with his face all scribbled out and a little die message written in the margins next to him.
Jay kind of chuckled, swallowing the saliva that was gathering in his mouth. "Guess we went... too far forward," he said, his voice wavering as he flipped the pages back a couple until they were by the Ws -- and there she was, their mom, at the very bottom.
Ashton West.
With... a heart drawn around it?
"Who the fuck did this--"
Before Jay could finish his sentence, he heard the whispered calling of his and Donna's names from their mom.
. Of course she did. That was Ashton West—sharp as a tack, but always winding up being some undeserving, unappreciative asshole’s accessory. Every word had always been for her—would never stop being for her—and everything that she did was to convince herself that she didn’t love it, that she didn’t love him, because she couldn’t cope with the fact that she’d married the wrong man.
Her voice was cold, but she wasn’t angry at him—there was no way that was the truth. She was angry with herself and was taking it out on him, he knew. She was dropping mentions of her husband, but only because she wanted to assure herself that she was right and had made the right choice, even though she knew—she knew deep down that it should have been Trevor—it should have been Trevor Callaghan, and she should have been Mrs. Callaghan, and these kids in his class should have been named anything other than the stupid fecking names that they had, and they should have been living in a moderately sized, reasonable house in a nice suburb, and everyone should have been looking at them and envying what they had.
But because that wasn’t her reality, she stood up, offering him a tight smile and saying that her kids would be at the poetry reading, and then heading toward the door.
“They’ll apologize tomorrow,” she said, “and really, it’s not too late for you to move on. It was high school.”
And she left. Left him sitting at his pristine room, obsessively and perfectly organized. Left the books—alphabetized, standing straight, uncreased, each row sandwiched between two gilded fish-shaped bookends on the wall-mounted shelves; A-C on the top row, D-E on the second, all the way down to U-Z on the bottom row. Left the filing cabinet—grouped by student, by week, by last name; last names A-H in the first drawer, I-M in the second, all the way down to U-Z in the bottom drawer, with West missing and in its place on his desk. Left his desk—his shiny name placard reading S. T. Callaghan poised an inch from the front and an inch from the side, the black basket for turning things in velcroed down and perfectly straight, the red basket for late work velcroed down beside it and also perfectly straight, the clear basket of lined paper (college ruled) right beside that one and also velcroed down in a perfectly straight manner; his positive affirmation desk calendar, today’s square reading, I am enough, each day before stamped with an X, the X stamp placed beside it and the red ink pad resting beneath it; his clear container of paper clips, his clear container of pushpins, his clear container of staples, his stapler; the manilla folder reading West in neat, careful handwriting in the center of his desk. Left the board—five Expo markers, evenly spaced, on the polished whiteboard; the Expo cleaner spray in its case velcroed to the side of the whiteboard.
It wasn’t just high school. And he could never “move on”—not from something that was meant to be. In spite of all of the odds, in spite of all of the urges he fought, in spite of all the nights he spent high and all of the times he’d drank until he forgot he was drinking, in spite of his time in rehab, in spite of the Master’s degree he’d earned, in spite of the work he’d picked up, something kept leading him back to her. She’d disappeared from his mind for seven years or so, when he’d disappeared from his own mind—those times where every day he kept living was kept living in spite of himself—but then, fate brought her back into his life again, brought her back to his mind, and he knew that it was meant to be—that she had always been the one for him. That he never should have done what he’d done and broken up with her—that that was the biggest mistake of his life. That that was the reason why everything bad had ever happened in his life. The drugs—he never would have touched them. The paranoia he felt—that wouldn’t exit. The fact that he couldn’t make it through the day without being overwhelmed by the sense that something was wrong and having to check the locks in his house at least fifteen times, lock and unlock, lock and unlock, lock and unlock, lock and unlock, lock and unlock, lock and unlock, lock and unlock, lock and unlock, lock and unlock, lock and unlock, lock and unlock, lock and unlock, lock and unlock, lock and unlock, lock and unlock, lock, lock, lock, lock, lock, lock, check, lock, lock, lock, and then one more time to be sure—no, she would make things better, she would help him. She would heal him.
But he’d let her go. And he let her go again, walking out of his classroom door.
There was something really fuckin’…weird about seeing pictures of his dead namesake in general, but the fact that his face had a giant, roughly scribbled red X over his face and the little word die written beside it made his stomach turn in a knot.
“Holy shit,” Donna said, staring into his uncle’s half-covered, empty eyes.
“Guess we went…too far forward,” Jay said with a sort of chuckle, but Donna couldn’t shake the sudden feeling that…
“Maybe we should put the book down,” Donna muttered, stepping back from his brother but finding himself unable to look away from the book as Jay continued to flip through the pages. “This is just…”
Jay pointed at a picture at the very bottom of a page now, and Donna’s brows creased. At the same time as his brother, Donna asked, “Who the fuck did this—“
“Jace, Donna,” came the whisper-yell of his mother.
Donna blinked and looked at his brother.
“Oh shit,” Jay said for both of them.
“C’mon!” Donna said, grabbing back the dusty yearbook and pushing his brother toward the door. With a determined look on his face, he searched the room for a safe place to stow the yearbook away—but he didn’t find any.
Well, a guy had to do what a guy had to do.
With a dutiful expression, Donna lifted up the back of his shirt and jammed the yearbook half-down the back of his pants, placing it to lay flat against his back, and then he followed after his brother in as casual a manner as he could manage, slightly more stiff-backed than he had been before.
Shutting the janitor’s door carefully, he turned to look down the hall at his approaching mother, and he smiled politely. “What a pleasure to see you again, Mom-o,” he greeted casually. “Have a nice talk?”
Okay well, his dad hadn't exactly said yes to the car, but he also hadn't really said no.
Colby was gonna take that as a win.
He couldn't wait to tell Axel all 'bout how he was getting a super cool sports car for his sixteenth birthday -- and he bet that Micky would think it was so cool, and then she'd be all. "Oh Colby, I always loved you." And Colby would act all cool like he didn't care, but he really would care, and he'd be all like... squealing on the inside, although he'd keep it ya know... cool.
And then he'd kiss her and they'd do things and start going steady or whatever it was the kids these days called it, and Colby would be so. Freaking. Happy.
“Wake up, suburb fuckers!” his dad yelled, as the car roared out of the driveway and through the suburb.
Angela, the president of the HOA, was not going to be happy.
"Real sweet," Colby agreed, with a nervous laugh as he leaned back in the seat, his hand gripping the side of the seat. Maybe if he was lucky, someone from school would see him in this car, being driven around with cool sunglasses, and then he'd be launched into being real popular, and then he would get someone even hotter than--
Oh, who was he kidding? Micky was the hottest girl.
“So whaddoya wanna do?” Lin asked, and he glanced in his direction.
One minute they were here, discussing how to get Ari rich with the Freuds' money, enjoying their cousinly weed session.
And the next, the sound of Nickie and Adri's heated debate was floating through the open window.
At first, in his somewhat smoky haze, Miles had thought maybe he was hearing something.
And then, the words started floating in, and Miles realized exactly what he was hearing. His eyebrows kind of raised up, an 'oh shit' expression passed across his face. He glanced in Micky's direction, and she seemed less-than-pleased when they were able to place the sound of the voice to a name. And if Miles was a good, not nosey cousin, he would've closed the window to drown out the sound and continued with their conversation.
.... But he was a curious boy.
So Miles licked his fingers and pinched out the end of the joint, shaking his hand off as he placed it on the windowsill, and then he darted out into the hallway and down to where the girls' room was, and he headed inside. Little time was wasted as he unlocked the window and pushed it open, and then peeked his head outside, until he realized that he didn't want to ya know... be seen, so he quickly pulled his head back in and dropped to the floor, back pressed up against the wall under the window.
Real stealth style like.
He beckoned for Micky to come to the ground beside him.
"Think they'll fight it out?" he asked, his voice much louder than the hushed whisper he was aiming for.
Her mother’s yelling was clearer now that Miles had opened the window—
though Micky could understand every word even before. She had watched Miles stand, watched him walk over to the window, but she hadn’t told him not to open it, even though her stomach was twisted in knots.
It was like she couldn’t stop it—like it had to happen. Like it was fate.
And now, Micky, staring at Miles with blank eyes, was nine years old and frozen in place again, staring at her stepsister across the table as her mother, screaming obscenities, stood from her chair to jab a finger at her stepfather, saying a thousand things that Micky could barely understand, and her brothers were crying and her stepsister was crying. And she felt as though she was going to cry, but she couldn’t. Her stomach turned sickly, but she knew that she couldn’t vomit either—that she would teeter on the edge but that nothing would come up.
In a daze, she stood and walked over to Miles, then sat beside him and put her head between her legs and closed her eyes, pushing her knees against her ears to drown out the sound.
”You useless sack of shit.”
“He was my whole fucking life, do you understand that?!”
”What did I marry you for?!”
”He was my whole. Fucking. Life.”
”Who the fuck do you think you are?”
”And you’re just some fucking wormy slut who no one remembers unless your legs are spread open on a box-spring mattress.”
”I could have had fucking anyone I wanted, and yet I fucking married you.”
“What’s so fucking special about you?”
Micky looked over at Miles, her eyes dull. “Close the fucking window, asshat.” She stood up, and she reached up to her head to pull out her ponytail holder and slipped it around her wrist. Her hair fell over her shoulders, and she closed her eyes. “Let’s go set some shit on fire or something.”
The message that Lindsay plastered all over his social media was his classic tagline,
”YOLO, bitch, so there’s no time for regrets,” but if he was honest with himself, there were three things that he regretted doing in his life.
For one, he regretted not getting that face tattoo from the street artist who offered it to him for free, even if he had been in a rush that day and even if the dude seemed like he definitely didn’t do basic self-care—because holy fuck, would a face tat of his own face for fucking free be so fucking sick or what?
For two, he kind of regretted going to his mom’s wedding, especially since it was the day of his buddy’s film release which meant that Lin could’ve scored some major fucking babes and gotten so fucking blitzed on free bougie ass spirits and high quality blow. Plus, she got divorced six years later, so why the fuck did she have it in the first place? (And that proved that getting married is a fucking scam anyway, but Lin knew that already.)
But the last one was the biggest one: he regretted ever fucking that bitch Tori, because now…well, look in his passenger seat.
The guy was okay and all, but there was something about him that screamed to Lin that he would never be what Lin was. Of course, Lin was giving him a shot, and he had fun sometimes, and sure, he seemed like a fucking badass kid sort of (in spite of the jerk off who was raising him), but…fuck, ya know?
Especially when he said shit like, “Let’s go golfing.” Like, your fucking famous ass rich ass father says, ”We can do whatever you want”, and you say, ”Maybe mini golf?”
Lin cackled. “Laaaame,” he drawled, grinning over at his kid. He put his hand on top of Colby’s head and ruffled his hair. “You gotta learn to have better ideas, buck.”
He swerved into the other lane, and then decided not to get in it. “But sure, hey, I said whatever you wanna do,” Lin said at last. “So let’s go, huh?”
He glanced up at the road, then reached over and slapped open his glovebox. A flask glinted at them. “Hey, look in there,” Lin said. “See that? Nice shit. You can take a drink if you want." He held out an open palm for the container. "I want some too, though.”
