Page 50 of The Last Good Man

“Thanks. I’m good,” I say, opening my beer with my ring.

“Do you want to eat? It’s lasagna,” she says, pointing to the food before scooping out a plate. I’ll have some. Maybe it’ll help me sleep. The pills do nothing for me.”

She’s been struggling with insomnia and migraines since we moved out, and she filed for divorce.

It’s been a bumpy ride––I’m not gonna lie. The things my father put her through would give anyone headaches, but she insists it’s not him.

It’s her hairdressing job, attending to her clients. In the same breath, she also says she likes working with people––it’s what keeps her sane.

That’s why I know it’s my father.

Shepullsout a dining plate for meandpilesfood on both before placing them on the table along with forks, knives, and napkins.

I shed my jacket anddrapeit over the back of my chair.

“How is she?” I ask when she swivels back to me. I flick my chin up, pointing to the room upstairs. “She has the blue light projector on,” I murmur before taking a swig of beer.

My mother smiles.

“She’s upset with me.”

I grab a bottle of water for her while she pulls out a pastry box from the cupboard. The name of her favorite shop is splashed across the lid in bold italics.

“Why?”

We sit at the table, and she starts to eat.

“She no longer wants his money.”

She chews on her food while I drink beer.

“That’s not new,” I comment.

“That’s what I said,” she talks around her food before pointing to my plate with her fork.

“Eat,” she murmurs absently, gathering her thoughts.

I put my beer down, grab the fork, andtake abite.

“I had to agree with her,” she goes on. "I also had to explain to her that’s not how life works. This is his responsibility as a father, so she has no say in this. Money is money, and we all need it. She needs it too—for school and clothing.”

“Speaking of money,” I say dryly. “Have you heard fromhim?” I say, putting the fork down and grabbing my beer.

“He came to the shop tonight. That’s what upsets her. She wouldn’t accept a dime if it was up to her.”

A faint gesture signals her frustration.

“She’ll get it in time,” I say.

She gives me a skeptical look.

“I barely get the money he owes me, and now, she’s throwing fits.”

“She’s sixteen. That’s what she’s supposed to do.”

She faintly nods in agreement, her eyes centered on her plate.

“That’s the other thing,” she says, smiling. “She’s mad becauseheknows she has a boyfriend.”

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