Secret Admirer - D.J. Jamison Page 0,68
in town were really nice, filled with brand new trailers — for now. I suspected they would all become like this with enough time, because trailers weren’t built to last, and despite being advertised as something you can move, it’s not easy or affordable to do so.
“Guess I better get this over with.”
“I could come with you,” Jeremy offered. “They might be on their best behavior if I’m there too.”
“Thanks, but this is something I need to do on my own,” I said.
The fact Jeremy had agreed to drive me here in the middle of his family’s Thanksgiving holiday meant a lot. He still had my back, and that told me more than anything else that we were going to be okay. Our friendship was strong enough to survive me dating his brother.
Speaking of Benji, I needed to get this over with and get back there before he wondered where I’d gone. I didn’t want to ruin his holiday, and I’d originally planned to wait to see my family until tomorrow. But it was something I dreaded, and the longer I waited, the more it would weigh me down and keep me from enjoying anything else.
Better to deal with it and move on.
With a deep breath, I crossed the street. When I knocked, my mom opened the door. “Ace! You didn’t tell me you were coming for Thanksgiving. I didn’t make a big meal.”
“I’m not staying,” I said as I stepped inside. “I just…”
The entire place smelled like cats. I fought the urge to cover my nose as she led me toward the kitchen, where my stepdad was sitting with a tray of crackers and cheese. He looked older, with more gray in his hair and beard, his face creased.
“Haven’t seen you in so long, I figured you were never coming back,” he said.
It wasn’t said with any particular anger. No, Earl was a mild guy. He left all the anger to my mother, and why not? She did it so well.
“Been busy with school and work,” I said evasively.
“How do you like school?” Mom asked. “We never hear much from you. I write letters, but you don’t answer them.”
Guilt flared. “Yeah, sorry.”
I didn’t know how to answer letters full of worry about bills I could no longer pay. Some of the letters were dramatic, talking about the next utility to be turned off or the risk of losing their home. I didn’t write her but sometimes sent them money — money I needed for my own expenses. Only Jeremy’s generosity had bailed me out when I came up short.
“Well, you’re here now. Sit down, and I’ll get you something to eat. I didn’t make a big turkey, but I have some ham—”
“That’s okay, I have to get back to the McKenzies.”
Mom’s lips flattened. “Still running around with that Jeremy kid? Are they your surrogate family now?”
“We’re still friends.”
She huffed. “Must be nice, just replacing your family because you think you’re better than them.”
“I don’t think I’m better…”
She chuckled. “Oh, yes, you do. Going off to that fancy school, avoiding us. But there’s nothing wrong with how we live. We have a roof over our head, food to eat. We don’t need flashy cars, or, or, name-brand clothing!”
“If this is what you want, then you’re right. There’s nothing wrong with it. But I don’t think it’s wrong for me to want something different.”
“You’re ashamed of us,” she said.
Guilt tickled at me because maybe there was a bit of shame mixed in. Shame that my parents didn’t want something different, that they’d accepted a life in a tin box with a leaky roof, a toilet that had to be plunged with each and every use, and crappy water pressure. But it wasn’t really those things that bothered me. It was all the times they’d had the power turned off or the phone line. It was all the times I saw my mom cry over bills until I gave her my after-school paycheck just to make it better.
It wasn’t shame that kept me away.
It was the knowledge that I’d feel like I should take care of them if I was here, give them money whether I had any to spare or not. It was knowing that I’d never escape this kind of life if I let my mother’s subtle manipulations get their hooks in me.
“I came by because I’m graduating this spring, and I’d really like us to have a better relationship.”
“You’re moving back home,” Mom said with obvious relief. “You majored