Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
DARIA
With two new pairs of cleats from the sporting goods store and a few packs of socks, I head toward Mom’s house. My phone chirps, and I glance at my purse, hating that my car is so old, I can’t get messages on a dash screen. The Bluetooth used to work, emphasis on the used to . Now, it’s just me, the radio, and the weird clunking in my engine.
A few more chirps have me dying to reach over and grab my phone, but I’m not trying to text and crash. As soon as I’m parked at the curb of Mom’s house, I grab my phone and pull up my messages, smiling at the group chat.
Well, would you look at that? I guess I do like group chats if the right people are in it.
Vic
Linc and I were trying to decide who gets to take you on a date next.
Linc
No, Vic was insisting he’s next, but that’s not fair.
Vic
tHaT’s NoT fAiR.
Linc
You’re such an asshole.
Kai
You guys sound like kids fighting over a toy. Maybe I’ll just have Daria for dessert.
I bite my lip, knowing, without a doubt, that isn’t a typo. Kai probably knows exactly how to use his tongue, and after the orgasms he gave me the other night...I’m tempted to accept.
Vic
You have to pick, little doe.
Why do I have to choose?
Linc
I’m all for two-on-one, but I have a whole date planned for you and me.
A little bubble appears, showing that Vic starts typing, then stops, then starts again. I wait a minute, running my finger over the soft leather of the choker he gifted me, but whatever he was going to say, he must decide against it.
Out of fairness, I think it makes sense that Linc takes me on a date next.
Linc
Fuck, yeah.
I laugh and send another quick text.
But maybe Vic and I can have coffee the next morning? I’d love to see your shop, Vic.
Vic doesn’t respond, and I’m worried I said the wrong thing, but before I can send another message, someone slaps the roof of my car. I screech and throw my phone, scowling at my mom, who is glaring at me through the passenger window.
“Are you coming in, or what?”
“I’m coming, Ma,” I shout, hating that I already sound mad. Grabbing the shopping bag, my purse, and phone, I climb out of the car and lock it.
Though Mallory Lowe used to be beautiful, you would never know it now. Anger and time haven’t been kind to her. Her hair is bleached and fried, and her skin is leathery and wrinkly from sunbathing for hours on end when she was younger. She looks like she smells of cigarettes and whiskey, and as I walk around the car and catch that sickly sweet scent of her favorite liquor, my stomach turns.
It’s only five-thirty, but her eyes are glassy, and there’s a slight sway to her stance as she scowls at me.
“Hi, Mom.”
“What are you doing here?”
Ignoring the punch of pain that accompanies her gruff response, I hold up the bag. “I brought Marco some cleats for football.”
She glances at the bag. “Your dads help you with that?”
I bristle. “No,” I lie. “I used what was left of my paycheck and?—”
“Don’t fucking lie to me, Daria,” she snarls.
I should’ve known better. One thing Mom is good at is spotting liars. It’s why she’s so good at poker.
Pressing my lips into a thin line, I shrug and look away, cringing when I spot Marco standing in the doorway, watching us with trepidation.
She gives the bag a stern look before heading toward the house. “Come in, then.”
Heaving out a breath filled with disappointment and broken wishes, I slowly follow her inside. The house smells stale, so I leave the main door open, letting air flow through the broken screen door.
Marco is chewing on his nails and leaning against the wall that leads to the short hallway. “Hey, Daria.”
I smile at him. “Now you can play,” I tell him, handing the bag to him.
He takes it and nods, shooting a worried look at our mom when she slams the fridge door. Beer bottles rattle inside, and she cracks open a fresh one, the cheapest beer money can buy. She side-eyes me as she takes a drink.
Averting my gaze, I gently punch Marco’s arm. “How’s school?”
“Fine. They don’t really make us do much the first few weeks.”
“Live it up while you can,” I tell him, like the wise older sister that I am. “Soon, you’ll be suffering as they prep you for standardized testing.”
“You gonna pretend like I’m not here?” Mom snaps.
I glance at her. “Uh, no.” Forcing a smile, I ask, “How’s it going?”
She scoffs and slams her beer bottle on the counter. “Don’t act like you care.”
That’s the thing, though—I do. I’ve cared my entire life, and all it’s ever gotten me is this.
“Ma—”
“Where’s my present, hmm?” She points at Marco. “Your dads got him a gift but didn’t think to get me one?”
“Marco needed cleats. I paid the bills,” I say softly, letting her know she’s technically already gotten a gift. She’s not getting evicted.
She huffs. “And what about the groceries?”
My stomach drops. I don’t have any money for my own groceries. Does she really expect me to pay for hers too? “What happened to your job?”
“They made me work too hard.”
“It was a laundromat,” I say before I can think better of it.
Something in her shifts. It’s subtle, but in a millisecond, she’s not just annoyed—she’s angry. It radiates from her, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to rise. The little girl who used to cower in the corner of her room while my mother screamed at me suddenly takes my place. Marco grabs my forearm, like he can somehow protect me from what comes next, but if anything, I should be protecting him.
“You think you’re so smart now that you have a job?” she asks, prowling toward me with a dark glint in her eyes.
I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been telling you to shut your trap for years, and you never listened.” Stopping in front of me, she pinches my arm, hard.
I smack her hand away. “Don’t.” My voice wavers. I hate that. I hate that, after all these years, I still feel like a child when she gets like this. I hate that I want to run and hide under the bed.
“Don’t. Don’t, ” she mocks.
“Mom—” Marco stops short as her pissed-off gaze zeroes in on him.
“You’re on her side?” She snatches the bag from his hand.
I lunge for it, but she swings it, the boxes connecting with my stomach, and I grunt. In the moments it takes me to recover, she runs into the kitchen and yanks a drawer open.
“Mom,” Marco says, eyes widening as she pulls out a knife.
“What are you doing?” I ask her, my body trembling with rage and hurt and betrayal. She’s supposed to be my mom. She’s supposed to love me. She’s supposed to love Marco.
She tries to grab one of the boxes, but it gets stuck on the corner of the bag, so she stabs the knife into the center of it and slices it open, cutting the cardboard shoe box in the process.
“Those are for Marco,” I tell her, stepping forward.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” she growls, pointing the knife at me. “We don’t need pity money from your dads.” Yanking the pair of white-and-blue cleats out of the box, she slams the knife into the heel.
Marco makes a sound that breaks me. Making me suffer is one thing, but making him suffer too? I don’t think so.
“Stop!” I shout. “He needs those.”
“No, he fucking doesn’t.” She huffs and see-saws the knife, since it’s too dull to cut through the sturdy material of the shoes, but the damage is done.
When I race forward to grab the bag, she rips the knife out of the shoe, bits of material flying all over the place, like splatters of blood, and slashes at my hand. I yank it away, narrowly avoiding getting stabbed. That was too close.
“What is wrong with you?” I ask, tears spilling over.
She tosses the knife on the counter and surges forward. I stumble back into the wall and drop my purse in the process. She grabs my shirt by the collar. “I told you to shut your fucking mouth,” she hisses, her breath reeking of beer and whiskey.
My stomach turns.
“Mom.” Marco’s voice shakes.
“It’s okay, Marco,” I tell him. “Go get in my car.”
“I’ll fucking gut her if you leave,” Mom says, glaring at him.
My heart skips a painful beat, and fear trickles through me, icy cold and real. What does it say about her that I’m scared she’ll actually do it? “Mom, please .” Mentally, I curse the break in my voice. I hate that I let her see my fear.
I hate everything about this moment. I hate the way her knuckles twist my shirt until a soft ripping sound hits my ears. I hate the way the scent of whiskey covers her skin. I hate that Marco is here. I hate...I think I hate her .
She rounds on me, eyes dilated in a way that’s terrifying, like the evil living inside of her has finally taken hold. “Get out of my fucking house, Daria,” she whispers, pushing me against the wall before storming down the hall and slamming her door closed.
I scramble and grab the box of cleats she didn’t destroy. “Here.”
Marco shakes his head and backs away when I try to hand them over. “I don’t think I should.”
“Marco,” I whisper. “Take them and hide them. I’ll take the bag and everything, and she doesn’t have to know, okay? She’s drunk enough, she may not even remember.”
He glances at her door, chewing on his cheek. “Okay,” he says, voice so soft, I can barely hear him.
Pushing the box toward him, I quickly gather my things and the shredded bag and shoe she destroyed. “Do you want to come over?”
“I should probably stay,” he says. “She’ll only get angrier if I go with you.”
I nod, swiping at my damp cheeks. “You call me if you need me, okay?”
“I’ll be okay,” he reassures me, and that only hurts me more.
Why is a fourteen-year-old trying to spare my feelings? Why is he living like this? I don’t have any money to try and start a custody suit. I could probably scrounge together enough evidence to show she shouldn’t be taking care of anyone, but I’m not about to call CPS and put Marco into the system. At least we know the monster he lives with now.
And she’s never hated him the way she hates me. He doesn’t remind her of the life she used to have.
Glancing around, I blink rapidly, forcing back the tears. “Call me,” I tell him. “I’m serious. I’ll come, no matter what.”
“You should go,” he says, pulling me toward the door. “You can’t be here if she comes back out.”
And to spare him from witnessing more of the shit show, I listen and flee, taking my bleeding heart with me.