Page 43 of Need You to Choose Me

“Well, for the right amount of money you can pretend it’s your favorite drink,” he answers simply. “So sign the contract and we’ll get the ball rolling on the next thing. You’ve got limited time before you have to start pre-season training, which means no sneaking off to God knows where. I need to know about it beforehand so it doesn’t mess with the sponsorships I’m trying to land.”

“What are you, my keeper?”

“No, but I’m the man who helps put money in your bank account,” he points out, tucking his phone away. “And frankly, my friend, you could use it. This place isn’t cheap, and neither is your mother’s arrangements.”

There’s no arguing with him there, even if I hate him bringing up my mother. He’s met her before, and while she was on her best behavior, he knows her history. I had to be open with him when we were doing contract negotiations. More money meant better treatment. I wasn’t a greedy fucker for selfish reasons, and I think Kyle respected that.

“Fine,” I begrudgingly relent. “I’ll sign the contract when you leave. When can they transfer the money?”

I’m not hard up for cash, but it wouldn’t hurt to pad my bank account a little. Especially with the list of shit I need to get fixed back in Lindon nagging me since I drove back to Pittsburgh.

Kyle checks his watch like he’s got somewhere important to be. And he probably does. I’m not his only client. “I’ll make sure they deposit it within the month. I should get going. Don’t forget to sign that contract ASAP.”

I wave him off and listen to the front door click closed behind him. My eyes go to his untouched tea, and I sigh to myself. Finishing off mine, I pull out my laptop and find the documents he sent me to apply my signature to.

There are a lot of things I should be doing. I need to get my workout in and check on Mom. If I were smart, I’d work on meal prep so I don’t find myself DoorDashing like I have for the past week because I’m too lazy or too tired to cook.

But when the silence engulfs me, my mood darkens. And the feeling…yeah, it sucks. I blame Kyle’s comment and that stupid fucking picture I wish I hadn’t seen. Because even if Olive isn’t mine, she sure as hell feels it.

“Don’t,” I tell myself, pushing up and dumping out Kyle’s drink. I stare as the liquid slowly disappears down the drain, my shoulders tensing when a strong sense of déjà vu hits me.

“What are you doing?” I yell at Mom as she rampages through the kitchen. There’s food everywhere—on the floor, the counters, and the crevices in between.

She grabs more items from the fridge and starts tossing them. “I don’t want to look at them anymore.”

I catch the pitcher of lemonade I just made this morning, spilling some of it on myself but managing to avoid the glass shattering on the hardwood floor. “Mom, stop. We don’t have enough money to buy more groceries right now.”

“Is that all you care about?” she asks, eyes narrowed as she turns to me. “Do you care about me at all, Michael?”

Michael? Christ. “It’s me, Mom. Alex. Not Dad. And you know I care. Can you please put down the yogurt?”

I watch as her eyes narrow a fraction more before she makes her next move. Unfortunately, I’m not quick enough. She throws the container of Greek yogurt onto the floor like she’s spiking a damn football. The contents splatter everywhere. On her. On me. On the wood.

All I can do is stare at what she’s done.

At the cereal that I’ll no longer be able to have for breakfast before slipping out for school.

The fruit trampled that I can forget bringing with me for after practice.

The milk that she loves having at night with her tea.

And the yogurt that I’d just bought in hopes of making parfait, which is one of the few things I can get her to eat even on her bad days.

All gone; at least one hundred dollars of food wiped out. Fucking great.

That’s when I notice the blood on her hand.

“Mom.” I rush over and pick up her arm, examining the tiny cut that must have happened when she broke one of the containers with leftovers in it. There isn’t a lot of blood, but I still walk her over to the sink and turn on the water.

“It’s nothing, Michael,” she insists, her voice lighter than before.

I don’t bother correcting her this time. She doesn’t fight me as I help her wash out the cut to make sure it’s not deeper than it appears. The color in the sink is a mixture of red and brown from whatever she spilled on herself.

I ask, “What happened?”

Because something triggered this. I know it. She’d been fine when I went to school this morning. We had eggs and toast together at the table. She kissed my cheek and told me to have a good day. I’m not sure what occurred between then and now, not even twelve hours later.

Then, in a voice that sounds so broken I almost don’t recognize it, she whispers, “It’s our anniversary. You forgot.”

---