Page 50 of Under My Skin
My lips lift at that. “It’s not so secret if you know about it.”
Simon walks further into the room, and there’s something about being in my childhood bedroom with my brother that makes us seem so much older. The room practically shrinks as he walks into it as a full-grown man approaching thirty, and it makes me miss all the times he’d run in here just to squirt me with a water gun before running away.
Okay, maybe I don’t miss the water gun, but the sentiment is there.
“You used to tell me all your secrets,” he says casually as he lifts one of the boxes on the floor and sets it on my bed next to the box of books. He opens the flap to reveal a stack of yearbooks shuffled and overlapping one another, some of the pages undoubtedly bent. “Do you still have that one yearbook where I helped you label all the girls who were mean to you?”
I grin at the memory. “Yeah, I think it was seventh grade. I just wanted to put an X by their name, but you felt the need to writeCUNT in red Sharpie over their faces. Mom and Dad were pissed.”
Simon smiles. “Yeah, I think I was grounded and had to pay them back the money they spent on the yearbook or something.” His eyes flick up to meet mine, his smile growing. “Worth it.”
I laugh at that, and even Simon lets out a chuckle.
“You two are both in here?” Mom asks as she leans against the doorframe. “What are you giggling about?”
“This,” Simon says as he holds the yearbook open to a page with two girls branded in red marker.
A bemused smile spreads across Mom’s lips, her eyes crinkling slightly. “Ah, yes. The year of the cunts.”
“Mom!” I say with a bewildered laugh.
“What?” she asks innocently. “I loved Simon’s idea, but I couldn’t raise my son thinking it’s okay to go around branding girls in such a way. Men are already responsible for most of our world’s problems.”
Simon tosses the yearbook back into the box. “Can’t argue with that.”
I know she isn’t referring to my dad, but a frown still settles on my lips anyway. What problems did he cause for her? And her for him? What happened between them that was so bad they’d throw everything away?
“Oh, stop,” she says, taking in my somber expression with her lips pressed into a sympathetic smile. “You know I was not talking about your father.”
“I know,” I answer too quickly, my shoulders squaring.
Her eyes jump between Simon and me before she walks further into the room. She rests a hand on each of our cheeks. “Raising you two has not only been my greatest accomplishment but also my greatest privilege. And your dad was the best partner I could have had throughout all of it.” She rolls her eyes adoringly. “Even with his early morning pancake serenades on weekends.”
I huff a laugh, butmy eyes burn.
Simon groans. “Those were the worst.”
Mom brushes her thumb affectionately across my cheek before dropping her hands with a shake of her head. “The man doesn’t know how to sleep in to save his life.” Taking a step back, her eyes scan over each of our faces in a way that only moms can before she beckons for us to follow her. “Come on, lunch is ready.”
The thought of the four of us sitting around the table and eating a meal together brings an unwanted pang to my chest—even if it is just lunch. I wonder if it will be weird, or maybe it will be even weirder by the fact that it’s not weird at all.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
EVERETT
As soon asI pull into my mom’s driveway, the guilt hits. The lawn is overgrown, the gate leading into the backyard looks like it’s falling off its hinges, and even though the garden beds are in pristine condition, the hose is uncoiled and lying in the grass like that’s just where she keeps it these days.
Killing the engine, I remove my helmet and step off the bike. As I walk to the front door, I scan for anything else she might need help with. The welcome mat out front is so worn, you can barely make out the words, but other than a few things needing to be picked up, the place doesn’t look too bad. Not bad enough for the neighbors to have a problem with it at least.
I reach for the doorknob, and it turns easily. “Mom?” I call into the house as I step inside.
“Everett? In here!” she answers from the far end of the house.
“Yeah. You should really keep your door locked.” Dad was always nuts about making sure everything was locked—especially when we were home. He always said the most valuable asset in the house was us.
“It wasn’t locked?” she asks as she comes out from the kitchen.
I run a hand through my hair, already more stressed than Ishould be. “No, it wasn’t. And when was the last time the lawn was mowed? I thought you had someone doing that for you?”
