Page 215 of Scoring the Player
“Her son was sick, and she had to leave the country and return home,” Carter answers.
“Her son was sick?” I shift in place. “I thought it was because you scared her away.”
“No, son.”
My teeth grind. “You know I hate when you call me that? Like, I want to bash my fist into something hard until I can’t feel it anymore.”
“Maybe you should go down,” Mom encourages him.
“No. Stay there,” I demand when he starts to move.
“Okay.” He steps back. “I’ve gotten help. I’m not the same man I was. I’ve been trying to make amends.”
I snort. “When?”
“Pardon me?” he says.
“You heard me. When have you tried to make amends? Was it the time after my back was cut open from trying to save you from falling into the fire? Wait, mmm, no, I don’t believe there were any amends then.” I start to pace. “Was it when you found out I was gay and tore through the house and broke everything you could in my room? Oh, wait, nope. Don’t remember an amends then. Or was it when you left me in the field after dark, covered in animal blo?—”
“Stop.”
“Oh, I remember,” I continue, snapping my fingers. “You mean that time after I totaled Anaïs’s car and you couldn’t be bothered to show up at the hospital.”
“I was there,” he says.
“What?” I stop pacing. “Liar!”
“I was there.” He grips the banister and sinks onto the step, arms crossing in front of his knees. “Every time you slept, your mother and I would trade places in your room.”
I stare at Mom, her face crumpled, eyes wet, and she nods.
“I checked into rehab—again—the day of your release,” he tells me.
He was there?
I ball my fists.
So what?
He doesn’t get a fucking brownie for doing the bare minimum.
“You made me feel like shit every day for needing anything from you. God forbid I asked for anything that resembled love. Those punishments were the worst. You know how fucking unbearable you made the house for us?”
“I do,” he croaks, his face reddening, like he’d rather explode than be here having this conversation.
Hey, he asked to talk.
“I carried shame for years for needing anything from you.” I stare at Mom. “And you.”
“Arnaz, we were supposed to take care of you,” she whispers, tears running down her cheeks.
“Oh, so you did know that?”
“Son—Arnaz—we messed up,” Carter says at the same time Anaïs appears over the banister asking, “What’s going on?”
“When Mom wasn’t working herself ragged to get away from us, she was depressed. I was okay, but Anaïs needed you. She cut herself. Neither of you saw the Band-Aids and lines on her inner thigh.”
Mom’s head flies up, and she turns to Anaïs. “Is this true?”
