Page 58 of What's Left of Us

I roll my eyes.

Mom sighs.

And the entire time she updates me on Dad’s health, I can’t help but wonder if I really have becomethatselfish that they think they need to hide things from me.

*

I get acall from the good doctor about rescheduling our next appointment for personal reasons, and I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. Mostly because one hour of each week has been filled with something other than sitting alone feeling sorry for myself, working out, arguing with my family, or working.

I don’t love talking about my past, but I like the weight that lifts from my chest whenever I walk out of the building afterward. It’s small, but I can tell the difference.

I chalk it up to companionship—that little extra need for…something. Even if the topics we talk about leave a lot to be desired.

When the silence at home gets to be too much, I find myself grabbing a bottle of booze off the bar in the dining room, my car keys from the table by the door, and driving fifteen minutes outside of the town limits until I’m pulling up to the white colonial home withCONKLINin gold lettering on a boulder by the front entrance.

I knock twice before the door opens and lift the bottle of scotch in greeting.

Marissa looks at the liquor, then at me. “I can’t drink that,” she reminds me, gesturing toward her stomach.

I grin and show her the sparkling cider I bought on the way here. “I’ll drink enough liquor for the both of us then.”

She steps aside. “Is that your way of saying you’re sleeping on my couch tonight?”

Stepping past her, I shoot her a wink. “Only if you tuck me in.”

“You’re an idiot, but Cooper will be happy you’re here. He’s been talking about you guys playing video games since the last time you popped by.”

I set the two bottles down on the kitchen counter and stare at the stove where two pots are resting on the front burners. “Where is he?”

“I told him he had to clean his room before he had any fun,” she says, stirring whatever is in the first pot and glancing over her shoulder at me. “Have you eaten? We’re doing spaghetti and meatballs. I just tossed some garlic bread in the oven to toast.If you’re going to drink, you might as well absorb some of the alcohol.”

My stomach rumbles at the talk of food, making her chuckle. “I could eat.”

She grabs three plates from the cupboard and sets them on the counter beside her. “No better plans tonight?”

I watch her dish out the food evenly on each dish from where I lean against the sink across the room. “Plans changed, and I didn’t want to stay home. It gets too quiet there.”

Sympathy carves into her face as she passes me a plate loaded with spaghetti and meatballs slathered in her famous homemade red sauce. “I know that feeling well.”

We’re quiet as I grab a fork from the drawer and sit down at the table. She prepares Cooper’s plate, then hers, before going to the end of the stairs and calling up to the five-year-old in his room.

She walks back in, props her hip against the fridge, and watches me. “Why here?”

I stop eating to look at her.

“You could go anywhere else,” she notes matter-of-factly. “So why did you choose to spend your night with a hormonal pregnant woman and a child?”

Setting my fork down, I lean back in the creaking chair and answer as honestly as I can. “Because I needed somewhere to go to quiet my thoughts without making poor decisions, and this was always a safe place.”

Her smile is small. “It always will be.”

My eyes lower to my food as footsteps run above us toward the stairs. “I could have seen Georgia,” I admit quietly.

“What made you change your mind?”

Wetting my lips, I watch the hallway for Cooper to appear before focusing back on her. “I decided I needed a friend more.”

“Georgia definitely can’t make spaghetti like I can,” she teases. “It’s the sauce.”

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