Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
GAGE
Whistling while I shop in the hardware store probably makes some people think I’m some type of serial killer, but even as I get a side-eye from one of the employees, I can’t bring myself to stop.
I’ve been happy lately. Genuinely. The reason is a pretty redhead with eyes that reminds me of emeralds and a smile that shoots through my chest.
It’s nice having a woman in our house. I love my friends, don’t get me wrong, but she brings a warmth that wasn’t there before.
The oak planks are heavy in the cart, along with the hardware I need for the dining table.
It’s a good commission, local parents paying me for a custom piece for their newlywed daughter, and I’ve been looking forward to working on something that isn’t part of a massive construction project.
Something that’s only mine. Lily might like a custom table.
The thought carries me around a corner as I head to the check out.
All the joy is zapped from my body as I spot my dad.
He’s by the hand tools, shoulders hunched over like he’s studying the selection of hammers.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath. My stomach drops.
I duck my head, trying to make myself invisible as I push my cart toward the checkout.
Am I terrible for hoping he won’t see me?
I make it to the counter, my shoulders tense as I keep one eye on the aisle where I spotted him.
The teenage cashier starts scanning my items. I exhale.
I might actually get out of here without a confrontation.
“That’ll be two-forty-seven fifty-eight,” the cashier says.
I hand over my card, grateful for the contractor discount.
The receipt prints, and I quickly make my exit, pushing the lumber cart outside.
Before I can breathe easy though, I spot my mom leaning against my truck, one hip cocked and her arms crossed.
The sight stops me dead in my tracks. Dread, heavy and thick settles in my stomach.
I should’ve known she’d be waiting. Wherever Dad is, she’s never too far behind. Avoiding them has become my new favorite hobby.
Approaching slowly, I set the first piece of wood in the truck bed and clench my jaw. “Mom.” Her name comes out flat, emotionless. What does it feel like to look forward to seeing your parents? I’ll probably never know.
“Hey, baby.” She straightens, plastering on that smile I remember from when I was little. But her eyes are bloodshot, pupils dilated. She can’t seem to keep still, picking at her nails and shifting her weight from foot to foot.
Dad had his vices, gambling and drinking himself into stupors.
But Mom? Mom always partied a little harder.
She’s had stints of sobriety, but I learned long ago not to get my hopes up.
She always falls back into old habits. Every time I let her in, thinking it’ll finally be different, I end up hurt.
I turn back to the truck, loading the rest of the lumber with methodical precision. Maybe if I don’t engage, she’ll get bored and leave. Maybe this time will be different.
“You look good, Gage.” Her voice has that out of breath quality it gets when she’s high. “Real good. Strong.”
The silence stretches between us as I continue loading my supplies, heavy with all the things we’re not saying.
Most of the time I can pretend to be normal, like everything is okay, but whenever I see her or Dad, I realize how fucked up it is.
How I’m the one that’s always taken care of them when they were meant to be parents. How much anger I’m keeping buried deep.
“Gage, baby, look at me.”
Against my better judgment, I do. The woman standing there is a shadow of the mom who used to take me to the park on Saturdays when I was seven.
The one who would pack sandwiches and push me on the swings until my cheeks hurt from laughing.
This version of her has hollow cheeks and that twitchy energy that makes me want to yell and cry at the same time.
I look away before my heart breaks more, but at that exact moment, Dad exits the building.
His face flushed and steps unsteady. My jaw clenches as he approaches, and my feet beg to run. I don’t want to do this. Not today. Not ever again. In a way, it would be better if they were dead. A cocktail of grief and guilt shoots through me. Jesus, I’m fucked up.
“There’s my boy.” Dad’s voice booms across the parking lot, drawing stares from other customers. “Looking prosperous.”
The word lands like a slap. The tiniest shred of hope that they’re here to see me or to see how I’m doing shatters into a million pieces. My chest hollows out.
“What do you want?” I don’t bother with pleasantries. We’re past that.
Mom’s smile falls slightly, but it’s all performance. “Can’t we just visit our son? We miss you, baby.”
Sure they do.
“We’ve been thinking about you,” Dad adds. There’s something calculating in his gaze that makes my skin crawl. “Heard the business is doing real well.” He pointedly looks at my truck which is the nicest thing I’ve ever owned.
Goddammit. There it is. I set down the last board and turn to face them fully, crossing my arms over my chest like that can protect me.
“Get to the point.”
Dad’s expression hardens. “Don’t take that tone with me. I’m still your father.”
The laugh that escapes me is bitter. “Yeah? When’s the last time you acted like that?”
Mom steps between us, her hands fluttering nervously. “Don’t fight. Please. We need a little help, Gage. That’s all.”
“What kind of help?” I ask though I already know. I want to hear them say it. To ask me, once again, to bail them out. To help them get their next score. Maybe one day they’ll hear how pathetic they sound.
“Money. A loan,” Dad corrects quickly, wetting his lips. We’ll pay you back.”
My hands clench at my sides. “What happened to the money I gave you last time?”
They exchange a look. The same guilty expression I’ve seen a thousand times before.
“That was different,” Mom says, features pinching. “We had some unexpected expenses—”
“Bullshit.” The word cuts through her excuse. “You spent it on drugs and booze.”
Mom shakes her head. “I swear we didn’t.”
“Do you even hear yourself? You’re such a shitty liar.”
Dad’s face goes red. “Watch your mouth!”
“Or what?” I step forward, and he actually takes a step back. Good. I’m not the scrawny kid he used to push around anymore. “You’ll hit me? Ground me? Take away my allowance?”
Mom starts to cry. Those manipulative tears that used to work on me when I was younger. Not anymore. She’s burned me too many times. “Baby, please. We just need enough to get back on our feet. To get clean.”
That lie lands like a dead fish on the ground. She’s been promising to get clean for fifteen years. Nothing has ever changed.
“I can’t help you.” The words feel like glass in my throat.
“Can’t or won’t?” Dad snarls. Suddenly he’s the mean drunk I remember from my childhood. “You think you’re too good for us now? Living in your fancy house with your friends?”
Mom grabs my arm, her fingers digging in with surprising strength. “Gage, please. I’m begging you. We need six hundred dollars.”
“Are you kidding me?” I stare at them both. “Last time it was three hundred. Before that, it was a hundred. Now it’s six?” Next it’ll be a thousand.
“We’re desperate,” she whispers, and her smile, the one that’s supposed to be sweet and pleading, is all wrong. Twisted. The drugs have carved away everything soft about her face, leaving behind sharp angles and hollow spaces.
My chest aches as I study her, remembering her reading me stories before bed, back when Dad still came home sober most nights. Those parents existed once, but they’ve been dead for years. These people are just wearing their faces.
“Please, Gage. For me?” she pleads.
“I said no.”
Dad explodes. “You ungrateful little shit! After everything we did for you, this is how you treat us?”
“What did you do for me, huh?” I round on him.
“Everything!” He tosses his hand into the air.
“Oh, that’s rich. What, like teaching me to lie to teachers about why I had bruises? Like showing me how to hide empty bottles so the neighbors wouldn’t know? Like making me get a job at fourteen so I could help pay rent?”
“We gave you life!” Mom screams, her voice cracking. “We fed you, we clothed you. You had it good!”
“The state fed me!” The words rip out of my throat. “School lunches, free breakfast programs, food banks! You want to know what you gave me? Trust issues and abandonment problems and the knowledge that the people who are supposed to love me most will always choose drugs over me!”
The parking lot falls silent except for Mom’s theatrical sobbing. Other customers are openly staring now. Heat creeps up my neck as I spot familiar faces pausing to look over. All the locals know how my parents are; most people hate them.
“You’re selfish,” Dad spits, slinging his arm over Mom’s shoulder. “Always have been. You don’t care about your family.”
“Family?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Families don’t steal from each other. Family doesn’t lie and manipulate and—”
“We’re your parents!” Mom wails.
There’s no way I’m sticking around for this bullshit. “No.” I unlock my truck with hands that shake from rage and hurt and disappointment. “You’re not.”
Parents wouldn’t make their kid take care of them. Parents are supposed to be nurturing. These two are leeches. I climb into the driver’s seat, but Dad catches the door before I can close it.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
I level him with a look loaded with venom and hate. How is it possible to despise someone this much? “Let go.”