2. Nick
2
NICK
R ed paint swirled down the walls of the sink. Inky black mixed in as I held my right hand under the blast of water. Tuning out the Stone Temple Pilots blaring in the background and the laughter of the other artists in the studio, I stared as the crimson hue darkened and glistened.
The rinse water turned deeper.
More metallic.
Like blood.
The illusion of it jarred me from zoning out—again.
Scowling at the sink before lifting my head to avoid looking at the blood-like colors I’d mixed, I rinsed my hands off faster. Rougher with the soap and brush, I hurried. I wished I could just as easily scrub the reminders of blood from my brain, too.
Grief was weird like that.
At the oddest moments, a memory could whip up, grip me, and kick my ass. Being dragged back to the recall of my dad dying never felt good.
I didn’t want to move on from him.
Nor did I want to forget him.
Living in the present was nothing but a fucking platitude that I was sick of hearing, though. So, the more I shoved this anger and resentment and guilt back into the lockable compartments of my black soul, the less I’d need to take up my stepdad’s advice to go back to therapy. Or just “talk” to someone.
What would talking do? It wasn’t like it would soothe the sting of losing my dad.
Existing in this limbo with festering rage didn’t seem to be doing much for me either, but I’d continue to eke out a life the best I could.
“Yo! Nick. You told me to give you a heads up when it’s?—”
“Six thirty,” I finished for my fellow artist, Diego. “Which was ten fucking minutes ago.” I shot him a look over my shoulder as I rinsed my hands off faster.
He chuckled, pausing from making out with the nude model he was supposed to be sketching, not trying to fuck. “Sorry, man. Got a little busy over here.”
From the looks of it, he’d be getting very busy all night long. The groupie—sorry, the “model”—already had charcoal smeared over her huge tits. I couldn’t imagine getting that up her cunt would end well.
I didn’t bother replying, leaving them to it. I had to get busy myself. That six thirty warning was what I’d been depending on to get to the Lorsen mansion on time for dinner. A “family” dinner. As if my new stepdad and stepsister would ever count as kin.
My mother, Leslie, would be there, though, and she didn’t deserve the worry about my being late.
Again.
I grabbed my keys from the counter of the studio’s entrance, leaving the moans and sounds of sex behind me.
Dammit.
There went my plans to come back here and try to fix my painting all night long. If Diego and his model were going to pretend this studio was one of the campus’s private spots to fuck until morning, I would need to find somewhere else to while away the time.
Staying at the Lorsen mansion was awkward. It wasn’t my home. It wasn’t my place to be. Since the first day Mom and I moved in there after her marriage to George Lorsen, I felt like an unwanted guest. That was over a year ago, and some things never changed. I had no clue what my place was anymore. I was untethered, not belonging anywhere.
Maybe Pierce will want to go to the Cricket again.
I stayed at that hole-in-the-wall until closing last night. But what the hell? Two nights in a row would be fine by me.
After I got on my bike and sped away from campus to get to the Lorsen mansion, I wondered how long I’d try to delude myself into thinking anything would be “fine” again.
Nothing seemed normal.
Nowhere close to good.
Taking every day one at a time hadn’t gotten easier yet, and I doubted it ever would.
I pulled in and parked my bike further from the garage. The shadier area closer to the pool house was where George had asked me to keep my bike since it was “loud”. No shit, it was loud. What motorcycle wasn’t?
Still, I humored the man. He was giving me and my mom a place to live, and I would never bite the hand that fed.
I sighed as I broke into a jog to get inside.
That doesn’t mean I need to like the guy.
George Lorsen wasn’t anything like my dad, but then again, David Grant was one in a million. Gone too damn soon, never to be replaced.
It seemed that my mom was trying to move on, though, following that stupid line of advice by remarrying and moving us here. And for that reason alone, I would try. For her, I would try to do what was expected of me.
I gave myself a quick glance, debating whether I should lose a few more minutes by running to my room to change or just show up now as I was and be punctual.
As a rule of thumb, I never cared about what others thought of me.
George’s opinion had to matter, though.
Don’t bite the fucking hand that feeds.
I compromised, taking off the button-down that bore paint splatters. As I jogged again toward the dining room, I tossed the shirt onto a chair in the hallway to grab it later. My undershirt wouldn’t look proper, but fuck it. It was clean. If George seriously expected me to show up to dinner in a goddamn suit, he’d be waiting a long fucking time to see that happen.
“I’m sure he’ll be here—” My mother ceased speaking as I strode into the room. “There he is.” She lifted her face toward me, almost smiling.
By rote, I pecked a kiss on the top of her head. “Hey, Mom.” I nodded at George—in his immaculate suit—across the table. “Hi, George.”
“There he is, indeed.” George’s smile was genuine. Or maybe he was that smooth, that practiced. I never trusted lawyers and I doubted I ever would.
The expression reached his eyes, though, unlike my mother’s attempt.
Fuck. I sat and wondered if my mother was sinking back into another depressive spiral.
Grief could be weird.
And as she proved time and time again, it could be tenacious.
“Hi, Nick,” Tiffany said politely.
“Hey,” I replied to the stepsister I tolerated. “Sorry to keep y’all waiting.”
“No worries, Nick. We weren’t waiting,” George replied.
I exhaled a breath of relief, but I couldn’t “relax”. Not yet. Besides how tense I felt in this place to begin with, like an outsider who didn’t belong, I couldn’t let go of my instant suspicion that my mother was acting funny again. She was getting too damn good at masking her inner turmoil, but it was up to me to look out for her, to read her and know when she was struggling.
But it’s not like I can do anything to fix it. I reached for my glass of water and sipped it, settling in to endure another so-called family dinner.
Like usual, Mom stayed quiet.
And like usual, I said not a fucking thing unless George asked me a question.
Sometimes, he’d pepper me with questions so that I’d feel like I was being interrogated, like a witness on the stand in court. Or he’d speculate and lecture, as if I were a student in his class. Other times, he’d bore me with suggestions about how I can figure out what to do with my life.
Tonight, though, it seemed I was spared because his precious princess was hogging his attention.
All while I ate, I watched how my mother didn’t. She merely pushed food around on her plate, clearly lacking her appetite again. Tiffany and George spent the entire hour talking about an internship that George’s law firm would be offering in the summer. It didn’t interest me. It didn’t seem like it interested my mom, either. Like most of what the Lorsens said, it went in one ear and out the other.
Finally, George got up, claiming he had to take a call.
“I’m going to head to bed,” my mom said when I turned to face her, wishing I could have a private conversation with her without Tiffany here.
It was as though my mother knew I wanted to check on her and see if she was struggling again.
With Tiffany lingering in the dining room, though, scrolling on her phone as the maids took the dishes away, I knew this wasn’t the time or place to push.
“Already?” I asked her anyway.
She smiled, and it was more like the “real” smiles I remembered. “Not everyone can stay up as late as you two do.”
I hated to be lumped in at all with Tiffany. Sure, we were the same age, but we didn’t even bother to act like siblings. We were more strangers than anything else. Roommates, even, if I had to admit this was my residence now.
She gave Mom a smile that seemed more like a smirk. “Oh, Leslie, it’s not like I’m going out partying and getting up to no good.”
I rolled my eyes. Up to no good? Who the fuck talks like that anymore?
Mom smiled, almost joining in on the teasing. Hell, if teasing me could snap her out of her mood, I’d take it.
“I know you’re up late every night studying, Tiffany,” Mom said as she stood.
“It’s not like I can study anything,” I replied, halfheartedly defending myself or the fact that I’d more or less become an art major.
Mom would never compare me to the golden spoiled child that Tiffany strived to be. My concentration in the arts was the product of a whim whereas Tiffany’s obsession with going into law was a bizarre fixation on following in her father's footsteps. If kissing ass were an Olympic sport, she’d win gold.
Mom patted my shoulder as she left the dining room, leaving me with my stepsister.
I exhaled a long breath, tenser now with worry about the only person who mattered in my world.
If she were struggling with depression again, would she reach out to anyone for help this time? To me? To George? One of the maids or housekeepers?
I wasn’t here often, by design, but if she needed me…
Just keep an eye on her. Watch and wait.
I wouldn’t repeat the mistake of not paying close enough attention to my mom again.
Reaching into my pocket for my phone, I glanced at Tiffany.
She was still pouting, clearly upset about whatever she was reading on hers.
“Now what’s wrong?” I asked, not caring about the answer. This girl had it fucking made. A steady, reliable parent. Money. This big-ass house. She had nothing to worry about. Instead, she machinated her own issues, needing the damn drama to stay important.
“That internship.”
“What internship?” I asked as I scrolled down to find Pierce’s last text. Going past all the messages about art commissions and eager models to be painted, I sought out my friend instead.
“Don’t you listen to anything?” Tiffany snapped.
I shrugged. “Only what matters, Tiff .”
“Oh, so you think you can just check out all dinner? Just act like everything is just great in your perfect life of laziness and no ambitions?” She huffed, shaking her head.
You couldn’t be further from the truth, bitch.
Nothing was great. Not anymore. I didn’t lack ambition. I was merely lost.
“It doesn’t matter to you that Daddy might not give me that intern spot?”
“No. It really fucking doesn’t matter to me what you do with your perfect life of kissing ass and pretending you want to earn your degree or career.”
If I had a dollar for every time she bought a paper off someone or used a program to do her work for her, I’d be richer than all the Lorsens combined.
We never tried to get along, but we hadn’t ever decided to be enemies, either. As stepsiblings, we operated on mutual loathing and disinterest. Tiffany didn’t care for me, and I didn’t particularly enjoy seeing her. Because we were such opposites, it never mattered if we got along or how well we did.
“Besides, it’s a moot point. You’re wasting your breath to whine about whether you’d get it or not.”
“How so?” She furrowed her brow, not necessarily taking offense.
“I would assume George would be squeaky clean and not follow the rules of nepotism, but it’s obvious you’d have the spot. You’re his kid.” I shrugged. It seemed obvious that he’d want the best for her because her success would be a reflection of his.
She shook her head vehemently. “No. That’s not true. I’m not sure that being his daughter would get me any better chances at this. There is a whole list of criteria that need to be met. An entire panel of professors who will be giving their input for who would be selected.”
I shrugged again, partly paying attention to her as I texted Pierce back. He was down for meeting me at the Cricket again. It was just a matter of when he’d be free.
“I’m also not so sure I could get this internship because of the competition.” She frowned at her phone, then apparently bothered by what she was reading on it, she shoved it away with a sneer. “The competition with one person in particular. This damn scholarship student, Sabrina Rosario.” She said her name with such a snarl, she nearly spat it out.
“Bummer,” I muttered as I stood.
I had no interest in lingering or pretending to care about her concerns. It wouldn’t make a difference to me whether George chose his daughter for some position at his firm or some other student. My only concern was my mother, and she had chosen to seclude herself in her room for the night, out of sight and out of reach.
Walking out of the dining room, I gave up on any conversation with Tiffany. It wouldn’t have made an impact one way or another. She was too self-centered, too selfish and stuck in her own little world of self-importance, only ever putting the effort into talking to someone when she determined she could gain a benefit from them.
I paused long enough to grab the shirt I’d tossed in the chair in the hallway. Otherwise, I didn’t let anything stand in my way of showering and changing before heading out to drink and play darts with Pierce again.
No one ever said that avoiding problems would solve anything. But sometimes, like on a night like this one, it was easier to pretend that nothing was wrong at all.
Ignorance was bliss.
And I really wished that I could lose the awareness and knowledge of all the ways my life wasn’t as great as it used to be.