Page 55 of Fake As Puck
I grin. “Yeah. It did.”
“And you’re okay? No weird feelings or awkward moments?”
“Nope.” I shake my head.
“You two didn’t kiss?”
I laugh. “No, we didn’t kiss. This is your brother. The one you’ve ingrained in my brain that he’s off-limits?”
She laughs. “I told you, the limits are no longer off.”
I huff out a laugh and sip my wine. She dives into talking about something new that Charlie learned and won’t stop doing it.
After leaving Tessa’s, I drive to my parents’ house in Glendale, and the contrast between West’s pristine adult-human home and my childhood house is jarring.
The lawn needs mowing. The paint is peeling around the windows. The mailbox is overflowing with what looks like weeks’ worth of mail.
Inside is worse.
Dishes are piled in the sink, some of them growing things that probably qualify as new life forms. The coffee table is covered with unopened bills and empty takeout containers. The laundry hamper in the hallway is overflowing onto the floor.
“Mom?” I call out.
“In here,” comes a weak voice from the bedroom.
I find her exactly where I expected to. She’s in bed, wearing the same pajamas she was wearing when I left for Seattle, staring at the TV like a zombie. It feels like my heart is cracking. This isn’t living. This is how she’s spending her second chance.
“Hey, mama,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” she says, placing a hand on mine.
I ask, “Did you eat today?”
“Dad brought me cereal this morning.”
“That’s good,” I say, even though all I can think about is how cereal is the last thing he should have brought her.
“How was your trip?” she asks.
“Good. Fine. Just work stuff.”
She nods but doesn’t ask for details, which is probably for the best because I’m not sure how I’d explain fake-dating my best friend’s brother for money.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask.
“Work. Double shift this week.”
“Okay. I’m going to clean up a little. Maybe make some dinner.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” I pat her hand and leave the room.
I spend the next three hours attacking the house like I’m being paid to do it. Dishes, laundry, bathroom, kitchen counters that haven’t seen cleaning supplies in what looks like months.
It’s therapeutic in a way. Mindless work that keeps me from thinking about Seattle or West or the way my chest feels tight every time I remember the way he said he didn’t want me to leave.
When I’m done, I drive to Ralph’s and spend $200 of West’s money on groceries for my parents. Fresh vegetables, actual protein, the kind of food that might convince my mom to eat something other than cereal.
