Page 22 of Sexting the Don

My heart’s racing. Dad’s a jackass, and he’s more unpredictable when he’s trashed.

“Kid, get out of the way. I need that money.”

I shake my head. “No,youdon’t need the money; the house does. If that money goes anyplace other than directly to the bank, you and Mom are going to lose this house if you don’t get caught up on the mortgage.”

Jimmy scoffs. “Lose the house? Kid, I’m going to lose my freaking life if I don’t get that money. We can figure out the mortgage shit later. If I don’t pay these peoplesomething,I’m dead.”

“I’m not putting Mom out on the street because of your screw ups.”

Jimmy scoffs again, his demeanor shifting as he plays his next card. “And what about me, huh? I’m about to die if I don’t pay up. You think a roof over our head matters if I’m dead?”

I remain silent, my jaw set. The last thing I want to do is engage with his manipulative drunken bullshit.

Jimmy’s expression twists into something pathetic and sad. “Wow, really, kid? That’s how little you care about your old man? After everything I’ve done for you?”

His tone is weak and wounded, his voice thick with feigned hurt, a typical cycle in his abusive behavior. He plays the asshole, then the victim, then the asshole again, always twisting the knife to make me feel responsible.

“It’s not that I don’t care,” I say, my voice low but clear. “It’s about priorities. And right now, keeping the house is a priority.”

Jimmy snorts, shaking his head as he mutters under his breath.

“Unbelievable.” His anger simmers beneath the surface, always ready to blame me, to make me the villain in his self-centered narrative.

I stand firm. I’m not about to get sucked into his bullshit again.

"Mom's taking the money to the bank on her way to work."

Instantly, his face hardens. He's no longer the hurt father but a threat looming close and quickly getting closer.

He jabs a finger toward my face, his voice sharp.

"Get out of my way, kid."

“Not a chance.”

He shoves me aside when I don't move, and I lose my balance, slamming against the kitchen counter, pain shooting through my hip. The impact sends my arm swinging right into a coffee mug, sending it flying from the counter to the floor, where it smashes into pieces, coffee splashing everywhere.

"Clean that up," he snaps, nodding toward the broken mug and spilled coffee.

As I steady myself, anger simmers inside me. Despite the pain, I'm not about to show any weakness.

My eyes still locked on Jimmy’s, I carefully step over the spreading black spill and reach for a towel. But the instant I move from my place in between Mom and Jimmy, I realize I’ve screwed up.

Jimmy rushes toward Mom with surprising speed for someone as drunk as he is, as if the booze has given him a quick flash of superhuman power.

“Give it over!” He reaches for the cash, Mom holding her hand away from him, keeping it out of reach.

“Mandy!” Mom’s desperate voice rings out.

Jimmy plucks the folded-up cash out of Mom’s hand and rushes back to the other side of the kitchen. I notice that it only took a slight exertion to make Jimmy winded, and I watch as his chestexpands and contracts so quickly that I wonder if his heart’s about to give out.

Honestly, part of me is hoping that it does.

But Jimmy soon catches his breath and raises the money high into the air. “This money isn’t going to be wasted. I’m not spending it on booze or gambling or some dumbass get-rich-quick scheme. It’s going to save my life. I can’t fucking believe that I need to fight my own family for it.”

I’m so stunned by his gall that I can’t even speak. The way Jimmy’s talking about saving his life, you’d think his predicament had been totally out of his control and not a result of his own bad decisions.

He turns his eyes to me, total rage in his glare.

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