Page 114 of Dirty Like Dylan

“Huh?”

“Because we’re kind of alike, you and me.”

“We are?” I said, but by now, I kinda knew she was right.

“I think you know we are,” she challenged. “And for some reason, he likes whatever it is about us that’s different from him, maybe.”

“Maybe.”

“His mom told me a bit about your family,” she said, carefully. Maybe she wasn’t sure how I’d take that. “Your Aunt Ginny. The one on your fridge, right? She really likes her. Said she’s met her a few times.”

“Yeah. Ginny’s kinda my angel.”

Amber smiled at that.

“She’s my dad’s sister. She’s been like a long-distance mom for me, all my life. She’s super Christian, really involved in her church, and family is important to her. She just always liked me, for whatever reason, looked out for me. She lives in Colorado, so I go visit her there whenever I can. Her and Uncle Joe and their little guy, Aidan. They’re pretty much my only family, so I try not to forget about them whenever shit with the band gets crazy and takes over.”

Amber’s eyes had softened even more as she listened, and she said, “That’s nice, Ashley.”

“Yeah. My dad raised me, technically, as in he provided me with a home and occasional meals, but he was kind of a deadbeat, and Ginny knew that. She’s his younger sister. I don’t know… somehow he didn’t inherit the same genes for giving a fuck. Until I started to become successful, anyway. Once I had a song on the charts and my picture in Rolling Stone, he took an interest.”

“Where is he now?”

“Out east. He has a little shack out near Chilliwack, where he grew up. With his degenerate dad.”

At that, Amber raised an eyebrow.

“Trust me,” I said, “he’s a degenerate. But I like to think the Calegari men improve slightly with each generation.”

Amber cocked her head a little but kinda smiled at me, sympathetically. “Slightly?”

I shrugged.

“Calegari? You’re Italian?”

“The degenerate is. I’m a Player.”

She just kept smiling and shook her head. “Right.”

I wasn’t sure why her looking at me like that made me want to squirm, but it did. Maybe it was just that I wasn’t used to talking so much about my fucked-up family.

“Do you ever see them?” she asked.

“I send them money sometimes,” I said, “but I don’t visit much. They pretty much only come around when they want something.”

“And what about your mom?”

Blank. I went kinda blank at the mention of her.

What the fuck could I say? Usually I didn’t say shit about my mom to anyone, because the truth was there wasn’t anything to say. At least, nothing nice to say.

“She left when I was thirteen.”

“Left?”

“Yeah. As in she said she was going to pick up eggs and never came back. I remember that specifically because it was Father’s Day, and I was gonna make breakfast for my dad. Try to impress him, I guess.”

I looked away. I couldn’t handle any more of the sympathy in her eyes.

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