half-drugged smile I’ve come to hate. Even when he isn’t high, he’s not present, not here with me.
“I’m not screwing around here. Do you think I’m working my ass off for the hell of it? I should be living in a goddamn mansion with the hours I’m working, but no, instead I’m paying for my degenerate little brother to get high and party.”
“Sis—”
“I’m serious!” I interrupt, knowing I need to calm down, knowing this isn’t the way to get through to Wyatt. It never has been. But I can’t stop. I’m just so disappointed in him, worried for him. “Is this what you want for your life, really? Just to—”
“At least let me fucking talk!” he suddenly explodes. His cheeks flare red. “Sorry, but—fuck me, you’re making a big deal outta this. I missed a couple of classes. It’s no big deal … wait a second. How do you even know I missed calculus? Have you been emailing my professors?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“You have!” he explodes, jumping up from the bed. “This is too fucking much. Go to college, she says. Be independent, she says. It’ll be good for you, she says—”
“That was before I knew you were going to act like a little brat!” I yell. “Wyatt. Mom and Dad, they’d want you to—”
“Don’t,” he says coldly. “I hate when you do that. They’re gone. You don’t know what they’d want.”
I see a flicker of the old Wyatt, the pain in his eyes. But then he shuts it off and turns toward the Xbox cord. He plugs it back in and continues, without turning to face me, “I’ll get my shit together, okay? I promise. Just … just don’t ride me so hard.”
I feel the desire to snap at him. I’m not riding him; I’m doing this for his own good. But the thing with Wyatt is that that’ll just make him want to rebel more. He’s not the little kid he was before Mom and Dad died. He’s snorted too many lines, smoked too many joints, and put God only knows what else into his body to still be truly innocent.
So instead, I walk up behind him and put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m proud of you,” I say.
He looks back at me, eyes full but silent. “Just give me some space,” he whispers. “Just … I’m an adult, okay?”
It hurts like hell, but I leave without riding him anymore. I was sort of hoping he’d suggest grabbing a bite or something, but I can tell he’s not in the mood for that. And I’m not about to be the clingy big sister.
Then I leave, feeling both more lost and angrier than I did when I arrived. Outside Wyatt’s room, the shirtless kid is leaning against the wall, tossing a baseball from hand to hand. “Hey, babe,” he says. “Wanna—”
I snag the baseball from midair and toss it over my shoulder. “Go fetch,” I say, stalking down the hallway.
I walk into the late-autumn air and try to calm down. The truth is I need to blow off some steam. I feel fidgety with too much work, with all the ODs, with Wyatt, with everything. Maybe that’s why I take Mr. Douche’s number from my pocket where I stuffed it earlier. Maybe that’s why I call him. Or maybe I’m really, really good at making excuses.
I’ve reached my well-loved Beetle—it was my mom’s and I don’t have the heart to scrap it—by the time he answers.
“Yes?”
“Is that always how you answer the phone?”
He laughs easily. I imagine him sitting behind a desk, doing—what? It doesn’t matter. The desk in my mind’s eye is large and his shirtsleeves are rolled up, revealing tensed, vascular forearms. But there I go, letting my mind run away from me again. Dangerous. Like a train hopping the tracks with a head full of steam.
“I’m sorry, who is this?” he says.
“One of the many women you gave your number to yesterday, I’m sure. Not that I care.” I’m rambling. It’s this whole blowing-off-steam thing. That argument with Wyatt is playing havoc with me.
He laughs again. “I’m a busy man. Do you think I have time to remember the name of every peasant I run across in this city?”
“Ooh, excuse me. I didn’t realize I was talking to a duke.” I pause, licking my chapped lips. I remember how his breath felt against my lips, impossibly warm, tempting. It’s been a little bit of a dry spell, yeah, but I honestly haven’t thought about that