Page 4 of What's Left of Us

“I don’t care about that,” I tell him, following him to the front door. “And my mom shouldn’t care so much about my plans. At least I want to get out of this little town and do something with my life.”

“You’re going to do great,” he tells me, yanking open the door. I catch his arm, digging my nails into his arm. “I better-”

“I can drive you home,” I offer, smiling. “There is a killer on the loose, you know.”

He hesitates before leaning in, kissing me one last time. “I’m not what the killer wants, trust me. Stay home tonight, Jo. Please? Be safe for me.”

I hate it, because Alastair’s going to jog home now and pretend like everything is all right. But I know it isn’t. He’s trying to pull back and I can’t figure out why. Sometimes we’re talking about our future as a trio, and other times he’s staring at me like he knows this is coming to an end.

I finally nod, letting go of his arm. “I’ll be safe. I’ll stay in, okay? Nothing bad will happen to me here.”

He stares at me for a little too long, and I don’t understand his look. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

He gives me one last peck before turning and jogging away, not looking back to stare as he heads down the block. The benefit of Citrus Grove being so dinky is it’s easy enough to get around town, and only certain homes closer to the outskirts have any substantial land. He’ll be back at his place in a few minutes, but I wish he would let me drive him.

“Joelle!”

Before Alastair is out of sight, Mom pulls up to the house. I didn’t even realize she was here, my attention fixed entirely on Alastair. I turn and glare at her, watching as she hops out of her SUV with a huge bag slung over her shoulderand a tear in the side of her overalls. She looks a little haggard today, like she did more physical labor than usual.

I just wish she hadn’t seen him.

“Joelle,” Mom pants again, hurrying up to me on the porch. I raise a brow, studying her face. She was supposed to be out at a painting job for most of the day, and there’s a little coppery smudge on her cheek. “Joelle, tell me that boy didn’t just leave this house.”

Blowing out a breath, I roll my eyes and turn from her. “I have friends, Mom.”

“No,” she huffs, stalking after me. I hear her bag hit the floor and her steps following me before the door slams closed. “I hear the rumors around town, girl. I know that you’re sweet on both of them.”

“Mom,” I groan, shooting her a look over my shoulder as I sit on the couch. “Seriously? You don’t approve of either so why focus on both? I’ll be out of your hair soon enough as is.”

“Oh, Jo,” she says tiredly, “the town will talk. People always talk when there’s a scandal.”

“Lucky for you I’ll be out of the way by then,” I grumble.

Mom stomps over, standing right in front of me as I turn on the TV. There goes any chance of a peaceful night. “That’s what you plan on leaving me for? Slumming it with two men? Do you want to be treated like trash?”

“I’m familiar with what that’s like, Mother,” I say pointedly, narrowing my eyes. “They treat me like a queen, and I care for both of them. I don’t expect you to understand, but you don’t have to hate on me for it, either. No one is being used.”

“You don’t understand,” Mom growls. “You're young. I was young once too. Men will use you and throw you out once the fun is done.”

I can already see where this is going and sit a little straighter. “Like my father? Is that who you’re comparing me to?”

She lashes out, smacking me hard enough across the cheek that my head whips to the side. I scramble back immediately, jumping off the couch and putting distance between us.

I’m too old to put up with this anymore. For once, I’m glad Vinny and Alastair aren’t present. They already have such bad impressions of my mother, this would only solidify it.

“We don’t speak of that man,” she says, and I can’t help but laugh. It’s the same thing she’s been telling me my entire life.

“Then stop acting like Vinny and Alastair are copies of him,” I challenge. “They aren’t. I refuse to repeat the mistakes you’ve made.”

She sneers, glancing down at her hand. I’m not sure if she’s regretting striking me, or debating doing it again. After a few tense seconds her fingers close into a fist, and for a moment I see us getting into a real brawl. I’m pretty sure I can take my mother in a fight, but it’s never come to that. She’s not one for physical violence.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she says, her gaze softening. This I’m used to. The flip-flopping emotions are her trademark, and her grudges against me never last long. Next she’s going to try and smooth it over.

Vinny and Alastair have voiced their opinions several times on this. They call it manipulation and abuse. I hate that there’s truth in their words, but soon, we’ll be gone. And I plan to never darken my mother’s doorway again.

“I’m sorry for striking you,” Mom carries on when I don’t speak. “I’m so sorry. You just bring such anger out in me sometimes!”

“Violence won’t fix it,” I say through gritted teeth.

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