Page 90 of Bad at Love

“Okay, so they know the deal. What’s the issue?”

“After looking through the house, they said something about it being a fire hazard and it needing to be cleaned up.”

“What? Why?”

She sighs. “Storm, when was the last time you were at your mother’s house?”

“I don’t know… years?”

She nods again. “The state it’s in… well, it’s not good.”

“What does that mean?”

I haven’t been in my mother’s house since I left when I was eighteen. I lived with her my whole childhood, so I know she’s a bit of a pack rat, but that’s not illegal the last time I checked. I can’t imagine it being any worse than it was when I was a kid.

“They wouldn’t give me details, but they were concerned. I don’t know much more. I didn’t want to hand out your info, but I assured the cops I would have you get in touch with them. I know you don’t legally own your mother’s house, but someonewill have to go there and handle it, and since you’re the only family…”

I’m not sure I understand what the issue is here. The cops were told to do a wellness check, and they did. They found my mother, saw the situation, so why are they giving me a hard time about her house? Maybe she piled up boxes in front of an exit? But if no one is living there, who the hell cares? I don’t know, but this isn’t something I want to deal with. Going back to that house isn’t on my list of things to do anytime soon.

“I’ll call them,” I assure her.

Heather opens her drawer and pulls out a business card that she hands me.

“They can give you more info, of course.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Is this all?”

“Yeah, that’s all,” she says, smiling, but it isn’t genuine. It’s almost pity, and I don’t know why. This is good news. I thought I would get here, and she’d tell me my mother was de—I swallow hard, not even able to think about it. “Let me walk you out.”

Heather leads the way to the top of the stairs, standing in the doorway to hold the door open as I pass by.

“Alright, have a good day,” I say awkwardly.

“You too, Storm.”

I walk out of the living facility after saying goodbye to my mother, then I take the long way home.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Gabriel

I hear Storm come in about two hours after he left, as I’m throwing my clothes into the dryer. He goes straight upstairs and his door closes harsher than I’d like. When I come out of the laundry room, I look up the stairs and wonder if I should check on him. It’s clear he was upset about something when he left, and stomping up the stairs and slamming the door tells me nothing has changed.

When I tried helping earlier, he snapped at me. I’m not sure my skin is thick enough to handle him doing that again, especially when I’m only trying to help. When I’m upset, usually I want space. I have no idea what he wants. I don’t know him well enough. He didn’t get to eat, so I guess I should see if he’s hungry. There’s plenty of food left and he was excited about the pizza.

I knock on his door when I reach it. I wait for him to answer or open, but he does neither. In the mornings, I knock and then slip inside. He doesn’t seem to care about that, but this situation is different. That’s like a standing invitation for sex. Walking into his room without being invited in wouldn’t be right. So I don’t. I knock again—and wait.

“Storm? Are you hungry? I can heat you up some food.”

Still no response. I wait a few beats before heading downstairs to do more cleaning. When the kitchen is spotless, about an hour later, I pick up my phone and text him because I haven’t heard anything and I’m worried.

Just let me know you’re okay.

I put the phone in my pocket and move to the living room. I dust then vacuum. When I’m done, I check my phone and there isn’t a text. What could have happened to get him so upset?

I go back upstairs to knock on his door again, and when I don’t get an answer, I put my hand on the handle, ready to make my way inside. But I stop myself. If the tables were turned, I wouldn’t like this. At least, I don’t think I would—maybe I would be okay with it because it’s him and my boundaries are different. He’s never come into my room, outside of that one time, for me to know how I’d feel and honestly, it doesn’t matter. This is about him and how he will react, not me. Unsure of what to do, I drop my hand and pull out my cell.

“Gabriel,” Marta says happily as I turn toward the stairs. “How was your trip?”

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