Page 107 of Gambler's Conceit

“Remember what I said, Mamá.” I shoulder check the asshole on my way out. My mother calls out after me, and my heart breaks, but I can’t fucking take it anymore.

Things are getting better in my life. They aren’t going to stay better if I keep letting my family drag me down.

In some ways, it feels like cowardice, but I can’t make decisions for my mother. As much as I want to grab her and make her come with me, I know better. She’d just go back to him.

It’s a half hour drive to the new apartment, in a neighborhood I can only afford because Caleb’s sister agreed to give me a chance and to write me off as a “low income housing” tenant. I’m not even low income anymore. Nothighincome, not for this area, but definitely not that low.

Of course, it would have been smarter to move after I’d already bought a new bed or a couch or a TV. I dump my duffel bag in the room I’ve designated as my bedroom. The single box of stuff I’d packed goes into the living room corner.

And that’s it. That’s everything I own now.

I laugh bitterly and slide down the wall. For several minutes, I stare at my blank walls and wonder if I can actually do this.

She survived without me for almost seven years. I’m not being a bad son by leaving her, right? At some point, I’m allowed to be done with all this crap?

My eyes burn with tears.

For the first time in years, I let myself cry. About my family, about my life, about the shit I’ve been through.

My phone buzzes at some point, and I pull it out of my pocket while I rub away the tears. I expect a text from my mother, begging me to come back, but it’s a text from Seven.

Can you teach me poker?

As wary as he’d been of the new phone at first, it’s become clear that he loves it. He especially loves texting me, and I’ve begun to be able to discern when he’s lonely and just wants someone to pay attention to him—which is almost always.

He texts like someone’s grandma, always using punctuation and without any kind of text speak or emojis, but I’m not stupid enough to mention that to him. It’s just one of those mysterious Seven things that make him what he is.

Like the marks on his back.

I’m sure my mother has scars, but not to that extent. And I’d paid close attention to how Caleb was whipping Seven. He hadn’t used enough force to break skin. That, and their arrangement still feels pretty new—and those scars are anything but.

Somebody else got their hands on Seven first, and they spent years marking him up like that.

I take a breath to steady myself and type back,omw.Then I quickly add,On My Way.

I grab the box and rifle through it until I find the old, worn deck of cards. It’s one of the few things I have from my biological father. He didn’t even like playing cards, from what I remember. It’s more of a family heirloom that made its way from Mexico to here.

Guess he didn’t need the cards, the way he didn’t need me or my mother.

I pack the cards, grab my keys and wallet, and make my way to the Roi de Pique. It’s a Saturday, so it’s crowded, but I spot Seven at one of the blackjack tables.

“I thought we were playing poker,” I say, putting my arms around him.

He’s so small.

I could easily destroy him.

I nuzzle the back of his neck, ignoring the glare from the Mormon-looking dude across the table.

Seven rests back against me with a smile. “I thought I’d try my luck while I waited.” His lips curve into a sour expression. “I have not, in fact, suddenly gained luck with blackjack.” He sighs, looking forlornly at the cards in his hand. “I surrender,” he tells the dealer.

The dealer offers him a sympathetic smile and pushes a few casino chips back at him. “Next time, Seven.”

He rolls his eyes and takes them, shoving them into his pocket. “Uh huh.” He hops off the bar stool.

I’m tempted to try my own hand, but I’d want to start during a fresh round, where I know which cards have already been played, and anyway, it’s not like they’ll actually let me play.

Being employed here sucks.

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