Mom’s eyes open. They’re bloodshot and it takes a moment before there’s a glimmer of recognition. “Sawyer?”
Her voice grates against the ashes of my good mood and a muscle in my jaw twitches. “Rough day?”
Mom either doesn’t catch on or ignores my sarcasm as she struggles to sit up. Seeing her such a mess creates a sickening shame. She doesn’t look like the top salesperson in the state, but like a damn broken bobblehead.
“Tell me if you’re going to get sick,” I snap, “because it will really piss me off if I have to clean the couch.”
Mom successfully sits, but when she goes to stand, she tumbles like a tree that’s been chainsawed at the base—headfirst and aiming for the corner of the coffee table. I snatch her before her skull collides with the wood, and as she goes limp, I swing her up in my arms.
She mumbles incoherently as I carry her to her room. Something about how she loves me, loves Lucy and she’s not that tired. But the only words I listen for when she single-handedly finishes multiple bottles of wine are “bathroom” and “vomit.”
Mom holds on to my shirt as I lay her on her bed, and for someone who barely has control of her body, she has one hell of a grip.
“Are you going to get sick?” I ask. “If so, you need to tell me now.”
“Don’t be angry at me,” Mom slurs. “You’re like your dad that way. So angry.”
“I’m not angry.” That’s a lie, but it’s easier than the truth.
“You’re angry.”
There’s no point in responding. It’s not like she’ll remember this conversation anyway. I spread a blanket over her, go to the bathroom and grab a couple of towels. I return to the room and lay them out for Mom.
“Sawyer,” she croaks. “Please don’t leave me alone.”
I hate being around her when she’s drunk. I hate the stench of alcohol breath, hate how she breathes out of her mouth, hate how her hands are clammy when she touches me, and hate the sound of her gags as she dry heaves.
“Please,” she begs, and her voice breaks as she’s close to tears.
I hate my life. I hate it when she cries, and I hate more that I love her.
I slump to the floor, lean my back against the bed and Mom touches my head to confirm I’m there. It’s a light touch, but the weight of taking care of her suffocates me. I often wonder if this is why Dad left or if she’s like this because he did. I never ask because it doesn’t matter. This is my life, and knowing the answer won’t change my situation.
I’m never falling in love. Besides Lucy, after I’m out of this house, I’m never taking care of anyone in my life ever again.
VERONICA
It’s two in the morning, and I’m sitting on the bottom branch of a tree on Jesse’s land. I point at Jesse as Nazareth, Leo and Jesse’s girlfriend, Scarlett, all clap and cheer at my success of making it six feet off the ground on my own. “You owe me twenty dollars, Lachlin.”
Jesse shakes his head, but he’s smiling. We’re all smiling. That’s what happens when our family is all together again.
“Forty dollars I can go higher than you,” Jesse says as he slips his arms around Scarlett from behind her. She leans back into him as if being that close to him is like returning home.
“Sixty that Scarlett can beat us all,” I counter, and from the light of the bonfire that’s a safe distance from the tree I can see Jesse hang his head in defeat.
“I’m game.” Scarlett kisses Jesse’s cheek then sprints for the trunk of the tree and jumps up, grabbing on to branches and climbing as if she were immune to gravity.
“I didn’t take the bet,” Jesse calls, yet he chases after her, taking branches at such a speed that I’m in awe. It took me ten hard-earned minutes to make it to this branch, and they’re passing me like I’m a narcoleptic turtle on the interstate.
Soon, Nazareth is making his way up. Leo, too, but I’m done tree climbing. I’d love to join them, but there’s a nasty spike of pain that’s been bothering me for the past hour and the most recent one caused a bout of double vision. Last thing I need is to be twenty feet in the air and get dizzy.
I slip over the side of the branch and fall to the