Page 94 of Vicious Little Snakes
His laugh is all I hear as I hit the top of the stairs to get very drunk and forget about this fucking day altogether. What Grey doesn’t understand is that loving Liam isn’t a problem. It’s knowing that I’ll still hurt him that I can’t live with.
Liam
“Liam.”
I look up from my bowl of cereal, which I’m having at two in the morning, to see my mother standing in her robe glaring at me. Shit. Cereal drips from my lip, so I slurp, wiping the back of my hand over my mouth.
“What are you doing up, Mom?”
“Looking for proof of life. It’s nice to see you still live here. I’d begun to wonder.”
Fair. My nights have been late, and my days fuzzy these last two weeks. I’ve been hiding, crashing on Arden’s couch, down in the art studio, or locked in my room, avoiding everyone, including Babe. I know I shouldn’t blame my mom for the bullshit between my father and me, but anger is all I seem to feel anymore, and it’s currently strong enough to replace my reason.
Babe shoves her hands in the robe’s pockets, staring at me with that fucking look—the one she reserves for people she’s about to fire. Am I about to be fired as her son?There’s a good chance.She starts toward me as she speaks.
“I had a fascinating conversation with Grey today, then with your coach, and finally the dean of Hillcrest. Do you want to guess what they all had to say?”
Not really. Because I already know, and I’m going to kill Grey. He threatened to rat me out to my mom if I skipped another week of practice, but I’d told him to eat shit. Looks like he made good on his promise to “spoon-feed my words back to me.”Motherfucker.
She takes a seat on the barstool next to me, anger ablaze in her eyes, jabbing a finger into the counter as she levels her words.
“Tomorrow, you will attend every single class for the rest of the goddamn year, without so much as a tardy. And two—you will stop smoking weed and eating all the cereal at two a.m.”
“I don’t smoke—” I protest because it’s only been twice, but she closes her eyes like she can’t bother with my voice, so I stop speaking.
God, this is worse than with my dad. At least with him, I was prepared for his disappointment, but seeing that same sentiment behind her eyes is fucking me up.
Babe re-opens her eyes, her hand coming to cradle my face as she adds quietly, “And three”—she reaches inside the pocket of her robe and pulls out my Columbia acceptance letter, placing it on the counter—“you’ll prove your father wrong.”
I let out a heavy breath, one I think I’ve held on to for the last two weeks. The thing that’s fucked me up so much with my father is that a part of me knows he’s right—I don’t know how to be my own man yet. I’m not like my father, or even like Grey. They always seem to know exactly who they are and what they want, but I only know who I am to the people around me.
Babe pats my cheek and smiles, sitting back, her eyes glistening.
“When you were little, people would ask, ‘What do you want to be when you grow up,’ and while other kids named superheroes, or princesses, you always said, ‘My father.’”
My eyes drop to the counter, feeling off-balance, knowing that I haven’t spoken to him since he left on business. I wasn’t afraid or cowardly. There just wasn’t anything left to say.
Babe’s hand comes under my chin, lifting my face to meet her eyes. “Liam, all the other kids grew out of their fairy tales. It’s time you did the same. You owe him nothing more than your happiness. That’s it. So I ask you, what does your future look like?”
Petite, brunette, pouty lips. I hope.
“I don’t know, Mom. But I know I want it to be mine.”
“Then get back toyourlife—I, for one, am truly excited to see how it unfolds.”
Even though I kind of want to say thank you, I don’t. Mainly because the lump in my throat would expose how much this moment means to me. My mom turns around on the stool, hopping down, and heads back the way she came, without another word. I don’t know how she does that—punches right through the wall and hits me where it counts.
The last two weeks started as me escaping, partying, and trying to numb the memory of what I’d done. But then it just became aimless, and night after night, all I could think about was Caroline and Columbia art school. Each feels like a reality I’ll never accomplish but one that I can’t stop craving.
My eyes dart to the goddamn elephant in the room. Pushing my bowl out of the way, I slide the letter toward me, taking a deep breath. The sound of the paper ripping feels intrusive in the silence, but I pull the folded letter out, opening it, and read to myself.
Dear Mr. Brooks,
On behalf of Columbia University, I am delighted to congratulate you on your acceptance into the incoming freshman class. As you know, Columbia University has a rich history of academic excellence, and we review the many hundreds of applications we receive with only the highest standards.
My eyes scan the paper, looking for information about the school of Fine Arts.
We are pleased to offer you consideration for acceptance to one of the few spots in our highly competitive Painting concentration. Please schedule your interview by—
