Page 11 of Fracture

“Stella did.” Her tone is clipped. “Harold hadn't changed his will, so that house unfort- I mean, that house landed in Stella’s hands.”

Good for her. I smirk at my reflection as we pass a floor to ceiling gilded mirror. “Oh that’s too bad.”

“I suppose you’ve seen the house she lives in now..” My mother clicks her tongue. “On that side of town, living with teachers and… and…” My mother struggles to think of some other low class of worker that could afford to live in the slum that is west Bellford Heights, and I suppress a laugh.

“Mom, you are a class A snob, you know that?”

She glares over her shoulder at me, before turning right into the conservatory. It’s cool in here, the glass walls mostly obscured by towering ferns and miniature palms. Bambooblinds span the glass ceiling, and the air smells fresh. This is the only room in the house I could ever bear.

A lavish spread is laid out on a long wooden table, seafood and charcuterie boards, bowls of fruit overflowing on the table. The food my mother thinks rich people should eat. It’s almost cartoonish.

“Jesus, Mom, you really outdid yourself.” I take a seat, sprawling in the chair as my mother primly takes her place opposite me.

“Only the best for my son.” She gives me a warm smile.

“Well, thanks. Beats prison food, that's for sure.”

Her face instantly shifts with alarm, her eyebrows shooting up. “Was it very awful inside? Your grandfather tried to make sure you got the very best facility. If there were problems you should have told me.”

“No, Mom, it was fine. As good as prison can be.” I reach out and pluck a grape from a plate, popping it in my mouth, and meet my mother’s critical gaze. “What?”

“Why do you have an obscenity tattooed on your hand?”

I raise my right hand and smile at the word Fuck tattooed across my knuckles. “I thought it was funny.”

“That kind of language is not funny. How are you ever supposed to get a decent job looking like that?”

“Who says I want a decent job?” I can’t help but grin at the mix of outrage and disbelief on her face. “Come on, did you really think I was going to be the next president?”

“You could have been,” she mutters into a glass of sweet tea.

“No, Mom, I couldn’t have been, and you never saw that.”

She swallows her mouthful of tea and snorts. “Your father insisting on a name like Levi was probably the death knell of that dream anyway.”

I laugh out loud. “That’s what you get for disappointing Daddy and marrying a biker, I guess.”

My mother sighs, reaching out to stroke her manicured hand along the leaf of a palm beside her. “Yes, well we all make mistakes when we’re young and stupid.” Her eyes move back to me. “So what are you thinking of doing with your days? Since you don’t have aspirations of being president?”

I stretch out my legs, popping another grape in my mouth. “Dylan and I were thinking of opening a shop.”

My mother’s face darkens further at the mention of Dylan’s name. “I suppose he’s staying with Stella too?”

“He is.”

My mother clicks her tongue, delicately placing a croissant on her plate. I know damn well she won’t eat it.

“Are he and Stella still together?”

The question has my stomach in a knot. Of course they were together, long ago. Dylan had been down bad for Stella the second he’d met her. I’d been fine with it. Until… Until… I suddenly feel unsteady, and I can’t explain why. Remembering that night, when Dylan had come to me in furious tears, telling me what he and Stella had been about to do. How she’d frozen in fear, and he’d immediately known something was very wrong. And then he came to me, and told me what she’d told him…

“Sweetheart?” My mother’s voice draws me back into the moment.

“What was that?”

“This shop, what kind of shop is it?”

“Oh, uh, bikes.”

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