Page 52 of The Trailer Park Twink
“God knows your kind make terrible husbands,” Mom mutters to Dallas. “You're just handsy whores who can't keep their dicks dry.”
“Well, that’s just hateful,” Bubba says. “What the fuck does his sexual orientation have to do with his potential as a husband? That’s biphobic as hell, Shelly.”
“He’s literally been fucking my son behind my back. If you want to talk about biphobia, maybe you can start by shaming him for proving the stereotype. You all just cheat in the end. That’s what you do. Who in their right mind would put themself in that position to begin with? I wouldn’t!”
My eyes narrow, and even though she’s still holding the gun she was aiming at me a few minutes ago, I don’t let that hold me back. “If we’re keeping score, you cheated first, and you’ve cheated endlessly. Anyone can cheat. Dallas being a blatant bisexual sex-god doesn’t make it any worse than when you do it, but you don’t hear straight people running around refusingto date other straight people, telling them they’re incapable of love and monogamy.”
“Well, if they’re aromantic heterosexuals, they might,” Bubba says. “Then again, I don’t know any aromantic hetero or homosexuals, so what the hell do I know?”
“Or feminists,” Ezra says. “As a proud, staunch feminist, I get it. Men are fucking trash, and we’d all be better off without them.”
“True,” Shelly says, “but no one asked you.”
Ezra folds his arms across his chest and scowls.
“Shelly,” Dallas interrupts. “What do you want from us? What can I do to end this? Ain’t neither of us happy, and if you take a second to think about it, I think you’ll realize ain’t neither of us been happy in a really long time. This thing between us is toxic.”
“He’s toxic,” she says, pointing the gun at me again. “He takes and takes until there’s nothing left to give. He took my freedom. He took my youth. He took every tube of lipstick I ever bought just so he could draw stupid hearts on his mirror with your initials inside. He’s a vulture, and all he’s going to do is bleed you dry.”
Dallas reaches behind until his hand finds my hip, and he gives me a squeeze. “He’s my son, and he’s welcome to every penny I have.”
His son.Fucking swoon.
Mom is chewing her cheek as she takes the words in, her face twitching as her fingers tap an inconsistent beat against the gun’s metal. Finally, she slides the gun into her pocket, the handle dangling from the edge, and holds out her hand. “I want the trailer, I want your pickup truck, I want whatever money we’ve got in savings, and I don’t ever want to see either of you again.” Does she think the admission is going to make me feel bad? Does she not remember all the horrible, hateful stuff she’s done to me over the years? Granted, I was hardly a doting son. I didn’t soak up her maternal love like a sponge on the rare occasions she would drizzle a little down my way. In all honesty, she has every right to hate me for what I’ve done with Dallas. My given-fucks are nonexistent.
I open my mouth to tell her that, but I don’t have a chance to say it, because Ezra lunges past us, launching into flight as he reaches my mother, tackling her to the floor.
The gun slides against the hardwood floor, landing at my feet. I don’t think she would actually kill either of us, but I don’t want her to have this gun. Not wanting to risk her getting it again, I pick the gun up and rush outside, wanting to hide it somewhere she won’t be able to find it. I debate placing it under the porch, but mental images of her crawling beneath our trailer house during multiple meth binges flicker through my head. With my luck, she’ll end up on a bender, crawling around looking for fuck-knows-what, only to inadvertentlytwitch her finger against the trigger and blow her own fucking brains out. The legal tape would be endless, and I’d probably get thrown in prison for the rest of my life. I mean, yeah, Daddy would commit murder just to secure a spot as my cellmate, but I don’t want a life lived behind bars, I want one spent standing in the sun, right at Dallas Johnson’s side.
There’s only one option.
I rush to the lake, wading through knee-high water until it rises to my chest. Luckily, I’m still naked as the day I was born, so I don’t have to worry about swimming in jeans. I dive forward, swimming for a few minutes until I’m far enough away from the shore. Lake water is the last thing I want in my eyes, so I close them before sinking. It’s not a very deep spot, thank God, because knowing me, I’ll accidentally drown on the first day of our forever.
Refusing to open my eyes, I wriggle the gun beneath the dirt with one hand, using the other to pile what I’m hoping is more dirt on top and not the bloated, waterlogged innards of a person or creature claimed by the lake.
Once the gun is secure in its new resting place, I swim to the surface, surprised to see my mom standing alone on the shore, and to my surprise, there’s a single teardrop trickling down her cheek. But why? There’s no love to be lost here, only emotional baggage. Looking like a drowned rat, I’m sure, I slowly wade my way out of the water and onto the shore. She’s waiting forme, her arms crossed over her chest like she’s cold, which, yeah, I get it, because it’s a little chilly out here, but I’m drenched and she’s not. Is she nervous? Why?
She closes her eyes and looks away, taking off her sweater and handing it to me. Once I've got it tied around my waist, hiding my bits from her, I clear my throat to let her know the coast is clear. Not looking me in the eyes, she roughly wipes the tear away and sniffs, hardening her expression, but it doesn’t feel genuine.
“I don’t get you, Austin. I never have.”
“What is there to get? I’m not a puzzle, I’m just a person.”
“Just a person,” she says with a chuckle, and there’s a softness to it that makes me want to take a step back in retreat. “The most dramatic person I’ve ever met. You just commandeered my gun and swam it out to sea when you could’ve just pulled out the bullets.” The corners of her lips tug down into a contemplative frown. “I’m sorry.”
I don’t know why she’s sorry, because she’s just as shameless as me. Apologizing isn’t in our nature. “For calling me dramatic?”
She rolls her eyes. “For aiming the gun at you. I may not understand you, and we’ll probably never like each other, much less love one another, but I wouldn’t want to kill you.”
“You’ve been killing me emotionally for years. I have died thousands of psychological deaths at your hand.”
“See?” she asks no one in particular, considering we’re the only ones outside. “This is what I mean. You’re overly dramatic for no reason whatsoever.”
I nod in agreement. “I am. And I’m happy I’ve finally found people who love me for it and not despite it.” Mom reaches into her pocket and pulls out the truck keys. “Are you leaving?”
“Yeah,” she says, rubbing her thumb up and down the key, her hands trembling. “I think it’s for the best. A clean break. We can’t keep doing this.” With a sigh, she turns and walks toward the truck, pausing when her hand touches the door handle. “You win, Austin.”
I know the words are true, but they don’t feel as good to hear as I thought they would. If anything, I just feel really guilty. It’s a reaction I never expected, but there it is. She turns to walk away, and—much to my surprise—my legs follow along after, trailing behind her.
