Rule Breakers (Off Limits #2) - Nicky James Page 0,37

The idea of becoming one of them made my skin crawl. More than ever, I wanted to text Dad back and tell him to come and get me now.

Mom headed to the living room, calling over her shoulder. “Do you mind taking care of the pizza, love?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. She wasn’t coming back. A glance into the living room showed the two of them clumped together on the couch, staring blankly at the TV, the screaming chaos of a hockey game their ambiance. The weed on the coffee table the equivalent of their snack food. This was my mother’s life.

I shoved the pizza into the oven when it was heated, then leaned on the counter and tugged out my phone. If there was anything that had managed to bond Dad and me, it was our feelings toward the woman in the other room. Dad wasn’t one to talk shit about his ex-wife or rant about all the things that hadn’t worked in their marriage—and I wasn’t a fool; there were many—but he never denied my feelings when I spoke of the heartache caused by having an addict for a mother.

Edison: I hate it here.

Dad was right on top of it like he knew or sensed my turmoil from miles away.

Dad: I know, kiddo. I commend you for trying every month. You’re a bigger person than me.

I pouted and sulked at my phone then typed some more.

Edison: She was popping pills when I got here and was already higher than a kite. Dinner wasn’t started, and the gross lump on the couch is marinating in a cloud of cigarette and pot smoke as we speak while watching hockey.

I gnawed my lip, waiting for Dad’s response. It would come. He never left me hanging when it came to how distraught I got being around Mom. For all we sucked at being father and son, we seemed to do much better when we just stepped back and were buddies.

Dad: Make peanut butter and jelly and call it a night. When Shi complains, tell her they were the only skills she thought you needed. Never let on I taught you how to cook. It must remain our secret.

I couldn’t help smiling, my fingers working the keyboard faster.

Edison: You taught me to cook frozen foods. That doesn’t require much skill.

Dad: I’ve survived 40 yrs on frozen food, child. Believe me, it’s enough. What are you making?

I snorted and glanced at the oven, the interior light showing off the gourmet dinner inside.

Edison: Frozen pizza.

Dad: Atta boy.

My brief interlude of good feelings vanished with his next text.

Dad: You okay?

Against my will, my lower lip quivered as I glanced toward the living room.

Edison: No.

Dad: I’m on my way.

Something loosened in my chest. I tucked my phone away and tried not to focus on the fact that my dad’s rescue was something I craved, whereas less than a half hour ago, I was afraid to call him.

At the end of the day, he was still my dad and the one parent who I relied on—despite all the complaints I’d made to the contrary.

With the bad weather, it would take him a while to get to Mom’s, but knowing he was on his way made the rest of the evening manageable. When the pizza was cooked, I plated a few pieces and delivered them to the living room. It was too much to expect for everyone to gather around a table to eat.

Mom thanked me and called me a sweetheart, but neither she nor her companion bothered to eat what I brought them.

Alone, I sat on the counter in the kitchen and picked at a few pieces of pizza, discarding the crusts onto the tray. With a steady eye on the time, I counted each passing minute until my phone buzzed.

Dad: I’m here. Want me to come in?

Edison: Nah, omw out.

I passed through the living room, pausing and waiting to see if my mother would notice me standing there. She didn’t.

“I’m leaving. Dad’s here.”

She shifted her glassy eyes to my face and blinked a few times. I imagined her processing my announcement.

“Already? I thought you were staying for dinner.”

I glanced at the plate of pizza I’d delivered twenty minutes ago, still untouched. “Dinner’s over. I ate. Yours is right there.”

Lazy Larry—or whatever his name was—leaned forward and snagged a cold piece off the plate. “Grab me a beer, would ya, kid?”

I opened my mouth to respond with something snarky but changed my mind. “Can’t. Dad’s waiting.”

I found

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