Milo
Grinning, I sidled up to the bar where a familiar face sat and dropped onto the stool nearby. “Hey there, beautiful, come here often?”
Mom eyed me over the martini in her hand, thin brow rising slowly. “That might have been funny the first few dozen times, sweetheart, but it’s long since lost its luster.”
I laughed. “Maybe for you.”
“And everyone else who has to hear the joke repeatedly. Imagine how poor Roland feels.”
I turned to face the front and grin at the bartender who had been at the hotel since before I’d even been thought of, and cocked my head. “Speaking of Roland?—”
The man gave me a smirk, which was kind of hard to see under the mustache that was probably older than Mason and Moira. “Surprise you?”
“Surprise me,” I said, wiggling my fingers to signify what I hoped was taken as glitter or confetti. “Make it strong, though?”
“I do hope you’re not going to drive after that,” Mom said, her tone light, but she was a mother, and that disapproving tone was absolutely implied.
“Mom, I’m not stupid,” I grumbled as Roland turned to work his magic.
I had never found a bartender who could make drinks like him, which was saying something considering the amount of bar and club hopping I’d done.
Of course, all legitimate and never with a fake ID.
I absolutely waited until I was of legal age before I allowed alcohol to touch my lips, let alone tried to buy any. “Give me some credit at least, please.”
“I’ll admit that you’re a risk-taking fool, but you’re not an idiot,” she said, looking me over, her eyes falling on the cast on my arm.
It turned out I’d just sprained my leg, but there was a hairline fracture in my arm.
I’d hoped that would just mean a sling, but it turned out that, no, it did not.
Maybe for other people, they might have gone with a sling, but the doctor had heard enough and said a cast would be best with the kind of activity I did.
“Especially when it comes to other people's lives,” she finished.
Some people might think that was a compliment, and others might think she was still disapproving.
But I knew my mother, not as well as I knew Eli, but I knew her pretty damn well.
She worried about me, but she didn’t disapprove of the life I led.
She had always been big on her kids doing what made them happiest, so long as we didn’t do it at the expense of others.
She definitely thought the stuff I got up to was foolish, but they were my choices, and she accepted them.
But she was also saying she knew damn well I wasn’t going to do something that would get other people hurt.
So, not just a compliment, but acceptance, and a dose of motherly concern, all while sipping a dirty martini.
Gross.
A glass slid before me, and my eyes widened as I pulled it close. “And what’s this?”
“A surprise,” Roland said with a twinkle in his eye.
“If it were anyone else, I’d be worried,” I said, raising it to toast him and take a drink.
I blinked as the strong taste of whiskey came through after rolling it around my mouth.
I hummed in appreciation. “I don’t know if it’s the whiskey you used or what, but I’m getting some vanilla. ..and cinnamon?”
“Sounds like a dessert,” Mom said, eyeing my glass with a slightly wrinkled nose. She didn’t like liquor that wasn’t clear, unless it involved tequila, which she would make an exception for in a heartbeat.
“Nope,” I said happily. “Not a bit of sweetness, just stuff that works well with the whiskey. Almost tastes like a really good rum.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” she said, sipping her martini.
“Another winner,” I told Roland, who seemed pleased. Honestly, you’d think the guy would be used to people complimenting his drink-making skills, but apparently, he was an eternal sponge for that sort of thing.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” my mother asked, her eyes locked on me.
“Would you believe me if I said class was canceled?”
“I would if you hadn’t started off asking if I would believe you. Now I’m suspicious.”
I smirked. “I’ll have you know that the midterm was a project I needed to do. Prof said the next few weeks were for getting the project done or touching up on stuff we covered in the first half of the semester.”
“And?”
“And I already turned it in.”
“Really? You did?”
I gave a huff. “You know, sometimes I do things on time or even early.”
“Mmm, you do. But you usually wait until the last second.”
“Truuuue, but not every time.”
“So this time was different?”
“It was.”
She continued to watch me, and I looked away in irritation. “I’m not lying.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Yes, Mom.”
Yes, I knew I was infamous for putting things off, but that didn’t mean I did it every time.
And yes, I also knew there were times when I would.
..well, lie about having done something or being on top of something because I’d feel like shit that I wasn’t doing something like I was supposed to.
Not that I didn’t know I needed to be doing those things, I always knew.
The thing was, my brain did not like to do things it didn’t want to sometimes.
‘No one likes to do things they don’t want to, but they still do it,’ was something I’d heard enough growing up that it was a miracle it wasn’t branded on my forehead.
The thing was, I’d long suspected that my brain didn’t work like that.
The way other people made it sound, when they had to push themselves to do something they didn’t want, it was like reaching a wall, and all they had to do was find the door.
For me, there was almost never a door. I either had to make the door, climb under or over the wall, or if I was too worn down, sit there and hope the wall eventually went away.
The whole time, I was fully aware that I needed to be doing the thing , but I couldn’t get myself through the thing because of the wall and the lack of a door.
I was working harder to get started on the thing, which was exhausting.
If something about the thing tickled something in my brain, well, that wall was made of paper.
Suddenly, the thing was no longer a problem, but an obsession, something I could sink my claws into and shred.
Time would fly by, and I would wrap myself in the thing , and my productivity went through the roof.
The problem was that the thing could be urgent.
..such as waiting until the last second to get something done.
Sure, it shot my stress levels through the ceiling, and I always told myself I needed to get better about getting on top of it ahead of time so I didn’t burn myself out.
Sometimes I would be organized and productive, but it never lasted long.
In the end, I fell back into old habits.
There was a certain level of resignation about it that I couldn’t shake.
“Can we just...take the victory for what it is?” I grumbled under my breath, feeling ten years old, and had once again forgotten to mention a school project to Mom until the night before.
Guilt and shame came hand in hand with the stupid dysfunction in my brain, and they were both companions and switches in my brain that dragged out the grumpiest, downright bitchiest side of me.
“Or are we going to sit around and give me more shit?”
Mom sighed. “I’m not giving you shit, honey.”
“No, you’re just acting shocked that I might have actually been on top of things,” I shot back.
I knew I was being touchy, but it was a touchy subject, which she damn well knew.
It wasn’t like her to poke when she knew it was a bad subject, especially since we were supposed to be grown-ups.
It was more the kind of thing I expected from Moira, who I loved to pieces, but she really could be a dog with a bone.
“Alright, I’m sorry,” she said softly, leaning forward to catch my eye. “Really. I shouldn’t have teased you about it.”
I screwed up my face as guilt trickled through me. “No, I just...I’m being sensitive. Sorry, I know I’m bad about doing things on time.”
“You really should consider taking me up on my suggestion before time runs out,” she told me.
Get tested for something for which I had all the hallmarks, and for what?
So they could say I had ADHD and do...what?
Slap a bunch of pills in my hand and tell me to get my shit together?
Shove a bunch of meth-lite into your system and call it a day, kids.
Who cared if that shit was still being used on campuses to help people get through their exams?
And who cared if I’d gotten my hands on some once to get through a particularly rough period of exams and projects?
God, it had worked . Except it didn’t make me suddenly feel like the world was alive and colorful, I wasn’t filled with all the energy I needed to power through the night like I’d watched happen so many times with other people.
No, it had dimmed all that noise and vibrancy, narrowing the band of my vision.
Suddenly, I was able to slow down and think things through, to lay out a schedule that, so long as the pills I’d taken lasted, and I found myself able to do the thing with a lot more ease than before.
Of course, that was before the side effects kicked in, and suddenly the idea of food was unpleasant, and sleep was more slippery than a boiled hot dog rolled in oil and dropped into a bowl of Jello.
At that point, it didn’t matter how many pills I had when sleep deprivation made the world too fuzzy at the edges and eventually too foggy for me to piece together a single coherent thought.
I’d crashed for a full day after my supply ran out.
I’d missed one final exam, but was able to make it up a few days later.
But the rest? All knocked out of the park.