Page 66 of The Love Scam
He still doesn’t know everything.
So tell him, idiot!
I can’t. I gave my word.
And to that, her inner voice said what it always did: not a goddamned thing. Because when she was nothing and had nothing, that was the one thing that had value: her word. If she said she would do something, or wouldn’t, she’d stick to it. Every time. She’d gone to sleep with a black eye more than once, and her favorite consolation was always the same:I told them if they tried anything, I’d make them pay. And I did.
“Rake? What’s the matter?”
“Oh, everything. I still can’t believe she cut him off like that. Me, I could understand—my mom loves me but essentially thinks I’m useless. But Blake? The golden child? Cutting him off is just odd.”
“So”—she paused, increasing her stride to match his—“you really don’t have any money?”You know he doesn’t. Couldyou sound more insipid?“Blake can’t help you?”Jesus Christ. What are you doing?
“Blake can’t help me,” he agreed, and it still seemed like a brisk stroll between friends, but it wasn’t.
“And he thinks your grandma…” The nuclear option. Because things weren’t bad enough. Another lesson from her childhood:Surprise! Everything’s worse.
“I think Blake isn’t thinking straight. He might even be sick, or at least exhausted from working too hard.*I don’t think he’s thought it through. Because there’s very little chance our mom orchestrated this without Nonna Tarbell’s approval. They respect the hell out of each other. Always have.”
“You never talk about them. Just Blake.”
“You mean during the course of our long, affectionate friendship?”
She said nothing, and he shrugged.
“Yeah, well. It’s annoying, having a genetic double who’s your evil opposite. So he comes up a lot in my conversations. Though Blake would tell you I’mhisevil opposite.” They were through the lobby now, stepping out into the Venice sunshine. Lunchtime and, for once, not a lot of tourists.
“Do they spend much time together? Your mom and grandma?” She never got tired of hacks, hits, or stories about other people’s loving families. In that order, which was proof, if any were needed, that there was something wrong with her.
He laughed, a short, humorless bark. “God no. They almost never see each other. Which suits my mom. And Blakeand me, of course. We never even met her until we were teenagers, when our dad died. Christ, that was a day.”
“Will you tell me?”Please tell me. I like hearing about your family. Okay, anyone’s family. But especially yours.
“Why not?” And he still hadn’t shaken that odd, quiet mood. But perhaps reminiscing would put him in a better frame of mind.
Thirty-seven
“Dead?” Oh, what the holy hell? He and Blake had just gotten home—no detention for once, and better than that, he’d sprinted past Blake and gotten to the door first—and there was Mom, home between two of her three jobs, and some strange old lady who was looking at them with a hopeful smile.
“Our father’s dead?” Blake asked, sounding as numb as Rake felt. It was like walking in the door and getting whapped with a pillow full of popcorn. Not painful, but disorienting.
“I’m afraid so, boy.” Mom let go of the back of the kitchen chair and gestured to the old lady. “This is your grandmother, Ruth Tarbell. Ruth, this is—”
“My son’s seed!”
Rake flinched. “Oh, man. Please don’t call us that.” Before he could ask her not to call them anything, really, the old woman had moved
(like a basketball forward! quick, with fast hands)
and pulled him
(ack!)
and Blake
(ack!)
into a hug that smelled like lemon tea.
