watery, ruined by the tracks running down her cheeks. “I was hoping you’d come see me before you left. It is today, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I say, pathetically touched that she managed to keep track of time. “I’m about to head out.”
She covertly wipes her cheeks, trying another bright smile. It hurts to watch, these moments where she tries to pull herself together like a brave little toaster. “I’m glad, because I—I got you something. It’s here, see? Open it, see?”
I gingerly hold the envelope she thrusts in my hand, but can’t focus on anything but her wet eyes. “Mom, why are you crying?”
She flaps a hand. “Oh, you know how I get. It’s not important.” She pushes at the envelope, imploring, “Open it!”
“It is important,” I argue, but know better than to push by now. She probably spends half of her life crying. Depressive episodes like hers don’t come with a reason. That doesn’t mean I’ll stop asking.
Sighing, I tear open the envelope, revealing a gift card to the local pet supply store. I know instantly why, and it’s more of a gesture than anything. I probably have enough money in my bank account to buy the pet supply store—like, the entire business.
She meets my smile with her own—this one a touch more organic. “You be sure to feed those poor little kitties, now. Make sure they’re getting enough. Don’t skimp!”
“I won’t,” I promise, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “The cats are going to be just fine.”
“And send me some pictures!” she demands, eyes going bright at her own suggestion.
My mother frets like no other. The second I made an offhanded comment about the feral cat colony at school, she was fretting. She probably never stopped. That’s the thing about my mom. She can’t take care of anything—can barely take care of herself—but goddamn. She tries so fucking hard. A ceaseless thread throughout my life is the question of how someone with so big a heart managed to create a complete fucking sociopath like Heston. Sometimes I think he just left his soul with her, doubled it up, made it too big to handle all these harsh things in life. Sometimes I blame him for it—her sickness—and I know it’s not fair.
He only deserves the blame for making it worse.
It hurts to leave her, but in a way, it’s also a relief. This is the deal. If I live at school, Heston will leave her alone. He won’t talk to her. He won’t even look at her. He won’t poison her thoughts with his toxic tongue, driving her deeper and deeper into the darkness.
As I pull out the drive, I just remember her brave little toaster smile and tell myself it’s better this way.
I unload Jasmine and carry my bags back to the dorm, and it’s not so bad. A stark contrast to the rest of my family, I’ve never been a huge fan of manors and mansions and estates, anyway.
That being said, I did manage to upgrade rooms to a single—Hamilton Bates’s old suite—which allows me some extra amenities, like a separate living area.
“Hey, man,” Carlton says, sticking his head in the open door. “How was the doctor?”
Fucking Devils and their phone tree. How sad is it that a secret band of eleven fuck-ups, criminals, and sad sacks are a better family to me than my own flesh and blood?
Very.
“Fine. I didn’t get the all clear yet, but I should before the season starts.”
He nods, seeming satisfied with this. And then he looks around. “Christ, dude. This place is looking rough.”
“What?” I turn to the room, scratching idly at my jaw. “Nah, it’s not rough. It’s just—”
“Messy,” he finishes. “Yet somehow also weirdly empty. How do you even do that?”
I flip him off. “It’s a bachelor pad. Don’t be jealous you’re still sharing a double with Ben.”
“You need a couch. And a rug. And possibly an industrial-strength vacuum cleaner. How the fuck does the resident let you keep it like this? I get chewed out for a messy closet.”
I flash him a grin. “Money, power, influence—”
“The fact that he’s super gay and you have that face.”
I shrug, not bothering to deny it. I’m cute as fuck, so sue me. But Carlton does have a point. There are empty pizza boxes on the floor—no table yet—and socks strewn everywhere. It doesn’t look like someone lives here, so much as someone’s been… squatting. I rub the back of my neck, looking over the room. “I guess I’m not really here