Page 84 of It's Complicated

Their hard work was the reason Laura and I got full-ride scholarships to top schools. Emma had opted not to go to college, but that was because a degree wouldn’t have helped her achieve her goals.

Even now, our parents did what they could to help, saying their responsibilities as parents didn’t end just because we were adults.

It broke my heart that Isaac didn’t have that kind of support growing up. His father liked to brag about his hockey achievements, and he’d happily thrown money at anyone who could help Isaac improve his game, but that limited support disappeared the moment Isaac had to stop playing because of his brain injury.

He'd essentially spent his entire childhood alone, bouncing between his parents' houses after their divorce and only interacting with other kids at school or when he was playing hockey.

He’d told me plenty of stories about how his parents would lose track of whose house he was supposed to be at when he was a teenager and constantly tried to shuffle him off to the other parent when he was a kid because having him around was inconvenient or they didn’t want to deal with him when he understandably acted out.

I hated that Isaac still questioned his worth because the people who were supposed to love him unconditionally were too busy fighting with each other over stupid shit to realize what they were doing to their kid.

“Want your beer?” Issac asked, breaking me free from my musings.

“Yeah.” Holding on to Isaac’s chest, I anchored him in place as he leaned over and grabbed our bottles off the coffee table. When he was stable again, he handed me my drink. “Thanks.”

“How are you doing?” he asked, sipping his beer. “I’ve been so busy dealing with my dickhead dad I haven’t really asked about how you are.”

“I’m fine,” I assured him.

“Are you worried about work?”

I took a long drink of my beer, nearly draining it. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“I’m worried, but at the same time, I’m not. The chances of me being on the chopping block when they start laying people off are high. I’m one of the newer hires, I make more than some of the other people in my position who’ve been there longer because my education put me higher on the pay scale, and I’m front-end staff, who are always the first to go. I’ve kinda just accepted that I’ll probably be out of a job soon.”

“Are you okay with that? I mean, accepting that you could lose your job is one thing. Being okay with it is another.”

“I’m not happy about it, but I’m not that broken up anymore. If they lay me off, they’ll have to give me some sort of severance pay, and I’ll qualify for unemployment. It’s not ideal, and I’m not fooling myself and thinking I’ll walk into another cushy nine-to-five job, or really any job considering the market out there right now, but I’ll be okay.”

“Do you have any idea what you want to do if you end up having to look for a new job?”

“I heard the strip club in town is hiring,” I joked. “The one Jesse’s stepbrother works at.”

“You’d make a killing stripping. And I’m preemptively naming myself as your lap dance training buddy so you can work on your moves and get that bag.”

I laughed and carefully put my beer bottle on the floor next to the couch, making sure I didn’t lean too far over and risk toppling us from our precarious position.

“I’m afraid it’ll take more than just practicing my moves to make bank,” I said ruefully. “I can dance when all I have to do is catch the beat and shake my ass, but that won’t do much for me on stage.”

“That’s true. You really aren’t a great dancer.” He pinched my thigh. “You’re lucky you’re so hot, otherwise you’d get no play at the clubs.”

I pinched his side in retaliation.

“Hey!” he yelped, jumping like I’d zapped him with a cattle prod.

“Like you’re one to talk.”

“What do you mean?” he protested. “I’m a great dancer.”

“You are when you’re dancing next to me and I make you look better in comparison. On your own, your moves are mid at best.”

“Mid?” He twisted around, his face aghast like I’d just accused him of sacrificing puppies on the weekend. “Bite your tongue.”

“What? Can’t handle the truth?”

Isaac sat up and drained the rest of his beer. “Hold this.” He shoved the bottle into my hand.

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