Page 77 of The Kiss Principle

“Does Mom—” Augustus’s voice was small. He stopped. Started again. “Did she say she was going to do something if you—I don’t know. If you did something different.”

Christ, I thought. The way we talk in this family. Mom’s having a bad day. Did she say she was going to do something? She didn’t have to, I thought. She’s never had to say anything.

I shook my head.

“Because that’s emotional abuse, Fer. Even if she doesn’t say it. That’s manipulative and selfish and—and wrong.”

I shrugged.

“And she can get therapy, medication, a support system that’s not you.” His voice was rising. “She doesn’t have to be so fucking—so fucking self-centered all the time.”

“Easy, tiger.”

But Augustus’s words spilled out faster and harder. “And you can’t fix Chuy, Fer. You know that, right? He told you that. I’m telling you that. Any reasonable person will tell you that. He’s got to take responsibility for himself. And Mom too. You’re a human being, and you deserve dignity and autonomy, and your worth isn’t based on how much you can help those—those two dumbshits who keep choosing over and over again not to help themselves. I am so fucking sick of it, Fer!”

The last words were a whisper-shout that it sounded like he barely managed to control. I stared at Augustus—his chest heaving, his eyes wide, a hint of red in his cheeks. And then I burst out laughing. He started laughing too, sinking back in his seat, hands covering his face.

“I’m sorry,” he kept trying to say through the laughter. “I’m sorry.”

I waved the words away and kept laughing.

When we’d both calmed down, though, he said again, “I’m sorry. I know it’s easy for me to say. I know I’m not you, and I don’t live with this every day, and I don’t know what I’d do if I were you.”

“You’d do something better. You’ve always been smarter.”

He practically glowed. He’d been like that since as long as I could remember. When he’d been sounding out words in that little tent I’d made in the fucking one-bedroom. The way his whole face lit up when I told him he’d done a good job. With his spelling. The first time I’d laughed at one of his stupid videos.

“I want you to talk to someone, Fer. I don’t know if that’s the right thing to say. I hope you’ll talk to someone.”

I grunted.

“About setting boundaries.”

I nodded.

“And self-care.”

“Okay.”

“And about this sense of obligation, and feeling guilty, and recognizing the limits of what you can control, and how important and valuable and wonderful you are as a human being, totally independent of what you do for everyone else.”

“I said okay, dick-drip! Jesus fucking Christ. Why the fuck am I going to pay some fucking therapist when I can sit here and have you yammer at me?”

“And about how you deserve happiness and what you want matters and you should go after the things that you want. There. I’m done. I’m not saying anything else.”

I stared at him for a long time before I said, “For fuck’s sake.”

He grinned.

“Come here.”

“Uh, maybe not.”

“Get your ass over here.”

“I’m good.”

“Augustus! Right fucking now!”

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