something else in that long gape he steamrolled me with.
Just start walking.
My legs travel north at first, but unsure how to get around the highway, I end up doubling back a few roads over. I finally find a creek bed that runs underneath most of the big streets between where I am and our neighborhood. I amuse myself for a while with my breath, puffing out thick, icy smoke then slicing it in half with my hand. That works for about half a mile and then I get anxious at my own lack of direction. I start to run, thankful for my lung capacity, and after about three miles, find myself in the last place I ever thought I would be at a time like this—at the end of Abby Cortez’s driveway.
10
Abby
We look like hoarders. Between legal contracts for some of my residuals, contracts from the production company for the film, travel plans, waivers, and the files upon files from my parents’ custody battle, I’m just glad nobody in this house smokes. There is so much paper for kindling, we would go up in flames.
“Abby, babe, I swear there’s a knock on our door. Can you . . ?” My mom’s glasses are perched at the end of her nose, her fingers dug deep into her temple, and the light above her like a heavy spot on whatever it is she’s reading. It’s something from my dad, but she doesn’t talk about it with me if she can avoid it.
“You need to eat, and then you need to go to bed, Ma,” I say, hopscotching my way through the living room over papers and a few scattered pieces of laundry.
“I will. I just have to finish this last—”
“Yeah, yeah. You always say that. Just one more page,” I tease. My mom looks up at me and smiles with her eyes, her mouth too tired to make the trip.
“Soon. I promise,” she says. I wonder if she remembers the pencil she shoved in her hair to hold it up out of her eyes.
“Okay,” I holler, turning around while opening the front door.
Tory D’Angelo looks back at me, and he looks like he’s been in a fight. Only he hasn’t been hit, he’s only been emotionally tortured.
“Mom, I’ll be right in,” I say, stepping out to our front porch to talk with him. My mom hasn’t seen either of the twins in years. She doesn’t even know I’m dating one of them. All we talk about lately are travel plans and court dates. Seems like a confusing way to bring my love life up to her, what with an evening visit from the brother I’m not dating.
“Hey, something wrong?” I lead Tory down to the first step, motioning for him to sit next to me.
“I think I need to stand. I’m too amped up,” he says, his feet in constant movement between the two stairs of our porch. He’s a constant whirl of up and down, and he looks like he’s just finished a marathon.
“You, uh, out for a run?” His hair is slick with sweat. He glances up, straining his eyes, and runs his hand through his hair a few times to push it from his forehead. A crooked smile plays at his lips for a flash of a second.
“This is kinda weird, I know.” His eyes flutter closed and he tangles his hands behind his neck for a stretch, exhaling while bouncing on his toes a few times. When his eyes open on mine again, he seems more settled, less like a stray dog who just dodged a shit ton of traffic.
“Let’s just say therapy did not go well.” A sarcastic smile plays at his lips, tightly closed and pulled up in the corners.
“It never does,” I say, making him laugh lightly.
My plan to keep our talk outside falls apart as my mom opens the door and leans against the door frame, holding her own tired body up.
“It’s freezing out. Come inside. I’ll make some cocoa.” She dips her chin so she can peer at me over her glasses, brows raised as she shifts her eyes to my male visitor a couple times, hinting for an explanation.
“Mom, you remember Tory D’Angelo, right? He threw up at June’s fourth grade birthday party.”
“Come on,” Tory whispers in exasperation.
I glance at him and shrug. It’s the one thing I know will stick in my mom’s memory.
“Oh, yes, the green cake. Glad to see you’re feeling better,” my mom jokes.