Page 88 of Fragile Hearts

I want to pull her back behind me, protect her from anything this woman might say or do to her, but I know I can’t do that. Sloane has been taking care of herself for longer than I’ve known her, and as much as I might want to protect her, I can’t hide her from this.

“Sloanie,” her mom now says, her tone softer this time. “Don’t be like that.”

Sloane shakes her head, fury in her eyes as she says, “How could you? How could you fucking do that to us, to me?” Her words are laced with venom, each one thrown at her mom like a dart.

Her mom blinks rapidly. “I don’t know what you’re talking?—”

“Cut the shit, Mom,” Sloane says, her words laced with sarcasm. “I know it was you who broke into our house. Who trashed the place and stole our things. You pawned them, for god’s sake. And for what, your next fucking fix?”

Her mom opens and closes her mouth a few times as she tries to focus on Sloane. “I wouldn’t. I didn’t do that,” she says indignantly.

Sloane takes another step toward her, her spine straight, her body practically vibrating with tension as she says, “Yes, you did.”

“I didn’t,” she responds, shaking her head as though to emphasize her point.

Sloane stares back at her, not saying anything at first, before she reaches out, grabbing one of the headphones and yanking her mom closer. “Oh really? Then why do you have my boyfriend’s headphones?”

My mom stares at me, her eyes wild, her pupils wide, but she says nothing, just pulling away from me, her face turning scrunched and sour. I can’t even look at her knowing she did this. Not that I didn’t already know, but this just confirms it, and my heart aches, my stomach churning, wondering how the hell someone could do this to their own child.

But my thoughts instantly flash to all the times she’s been arrested, all the times I was moved from foster home to foster home, all the times she had court dates to regain custody, and she didn’t show up. And every single time she came back into my life, she sent me spiraling. She can’t function normally, and for some reason, she hates that I can. Not only did she destroy my childhood, but she’s out to destroy the life I created all on my own.

But she doesn’t get to win. She will not ruin everything good I have fought for and found all on my own because I deserve it.

“Owen, call the police,” I say without missing a beat. My eyes never leave hers, wanting her to see that I’m not afraid. I’m not backing down like I used to. “I told you I would get a restraining order if you came around again. It wasn’t a joke.”

All of this is now directed at her, and as much as I hate that she’s taken this public, out where the world can see, I can’t let her continue to do this kind of shit.

She laughs, and all it does is enrage me, my jaw clenched and my hands balling into fists at my sides. But I need to control myself, not let her see how much this is affecting me.

I let out a slow breath, hearing Owen on the phone to the police, and hoping I can keep her here long enough for them to arrive. It would be just like her to run, to hide and for me to be left looking like the fool.

“Come on, Sloanie. You’re being so dramatic,” she says, garbled and slow, and this is her go-to phrase. Always has been, always will be. “You can’t tell me that your boyfriend doesn’t have the money?—”

As soon as I hear her mention money and Owen’s name, I’m livid, cutting her off. “Obviously, this is about money. How much do you want? What can I give you to make you go away?”

She laughs, shaking her head as if this isn’t why she’s come around again. I remember being a kid, probably about six or seven, and she had me on the edge of the highway, begging for money with her. Promising me we could get McDonald’s with the money, but she turned around and spent it on drugs.

I cried myself to sleep that night, hungry and lonely while she was passed out on the living room floor. The next day, there was an eviction notice on our door.

“I could give you a million dollars, and you’d be back the next day,” I hiss, knowing that no amount of money will make this situation go away.

“That’s not true,” she tells me, completely clueless that I’m doing this to keep her here. “Sloanie, your boyfriend has the money. I just need a little to get back on my feet. You gotta understand that.”

“Oh, I understand,” I reply, stepping back to put some distance between us. “How much do you need? What would help you get back on your feet?” This last part comes out condescending, but I couldn’t give a shit.

“I don’t know,” she croons, trying to sound grateful, but everything about her is fake—so fake it makes me sick. “It would be great if I could get some money for rent. My boyfriend is supposed to start a new job next week.”

She has no idea I’ve heard all of this a million times, line after line of bullshit. It was always something when I was a kid.

Someone stole her car while she was pumping gas.

She was robbed while trying to buy groceries.

She lost her job.

She’s just waiting on her disability to get approved.

The rent check got lost in the mail.

---