Page 29 of The Trailer Park Twink
“You’re damn right I’m going to tell the Santa Barbara story. Can you blame me? You left me in the wilderness for a week!”
“I left you at a Comfort Inn in a fully furnished room, for three hours. It was right next door to a gay bar. There was food. There was merriment at your disposal. There was a fucking orgy, Brian. You organized an all-you-can-eat buffet of cock on Grindr, and you didn’t even send a text inviting me. I only went down the street to flirt with pretty boys. It wasn’t like I left you. If you want to talk about shitty friends, we can talk about that. Did you ever stop to think maybe I wanted to get railed right beside you, holding your hand as we both get fucked through the floorboards?”
“Well, no—”
I turn and point at Ezra. “And did I say anything about the time you cheated with my boyfriend behind my back.”
Ezra rolls his eyes. “It was Benito. Benito doesn’t count. Everyone in Tallulah fucked him while you were together. You didn’t even like him.”
“True, but still. If you want to call me a bad friend, I’m going to call out your problematic behavior too.” I march toward him and poke him in the chest, the way he did with me a minute ago. “How dare you facilitate an intervention on my behalf. It’s not nice, Ez. In fact, I’d go as far as calling it downright rude. Worst best friend ever.”
His eyes narrow. “Best best friend ever, and you know it.”
I roll my eyes. “TBD. Seriously, though. I really need you to be okay with this. We’re going to Minnesota! He’s taking meto a cabin. A week alone with Daddy. You don’t expect me to sing when it feels like my heart’s going to explode, do you?”
“Yes,” they say in unison, sans Deirdre.
Sighing, I relent, shooting Dallas a text letting him know I’ve been bested by three maniacal twinks with boundary issues.
Two hours later, I pull into the driveway and rush to the door, hoping everything’s still good to go. As soon as I open the door, my heart sinks.
Mom is home. She’s home, and she’s sitting in Daddy’s lap. He’s staring at me with an apologetic look in his eyes. Mom is clearly three sheets to the wind with the way she’s flailing her legs in the air in time with the beat of Elton John’s “Something About the Way You Look Tonight,” which—God knows why—is blaring out of her old boombox on the coffee table. As she belts out an off-key line about someone taking her breath away, Dallas steals mine when he mouths the words, staring right at me, with eyes so serious, the intensity is physically painful, because I know without a shadow of a doubt he wishes it was me in his arms instead.
Mom giggles as the song ends, squealing loudly, doing the absolute most in either a shameless attempt to win the heart of a man who’s already got one foot out the door, or simply because she’s intoxicated.
“You’re gonna take me to the lake, baby?” she asks, kissing Dallas’ neck.
"Minnesota," Dallas corrects her.
“We’re gonna go tomorrow, ain’t we?”
Dallas closes his eyes and sighs. “Sure, Shell.” He’s placating her. He has to be. He wouldn’t go back on his word. Not for her. Not over me. Never over me.
“Dallas?” I whisper.
He shoots me a reassuring look, but it isn’t all that reassuring. Unfortunately, my mother must’ve heard me, too, because her head jerks in my direction, providing me with the jump scare to end all jump scares.
“He’s gonna take me to Winawana, Washington,” she slurs almost incoherently. “Gonna see the Windy City. And what are you gonna do? Sit around on your ass, using up my electricity.”
“Dallas’ electricity,” I say, arching a brow.
She just scoffs. “What’s his is mine and what’s mine is his. That’s what them vows mean. To love and linger. To have and to have not.”
“You’re drunk,” I point out.
She hiccups. “And you’re up past your bedtime.”
“Bedtime? I’m twenty—”
“My house, my rules,” she interrupts. “If you don’t like them, you don’t have to follow them. You can just get your stuff and go. No one’s keeping you here.”
I look to Dallas for support, but he just shakes his head. “Why don’t you go get ready for bed, Aussie. I’ll come tell you goodnight once I’ve handled . . .” He stares down at Mom, who is once again flailing her arms around in a botched attempt at dancing, belting out Tina Turner’s “Private Dancer.”
Her eyes find me mid-song, and she pauses long enough to drunkenly hurl out, “He ain’t ever gonna fuck you, you know. He might let you cuddle, and he may give you a hundred kisses on the forehead a day, butmyDallas ain’t a fucking fruitcake.”
“Shelly,” Dallas barks, startling her. When she looks at him, her eyes widen like she forgot he’s there. Her mouth opens to issue an apology, but Daddy just shakes his head before glancing at me. “Go to bed, baby. Don’t worry about anything. I’ve got this.”
I guess we’re not going to Minnesota tonight.
