Page 49 of The Baby Bargain
I'm not mad at Hunter. I'm not holding out for an apology.
It's clear he's sorry. It's clear he wants to make up. It's clear he loves me.
I love him too.
He's my brother. I'll always love him.
But I can't forgive him.
Everyone thinks I'm a bitter asshole. I guess my taste in music—I'm currently playing my favorite album, a pop-punk classic filled with equal partsI hate you and hope you die in a car crashandI don't even think about you, you mean nothing to me, why do you think this song is about you anyway—does nothing to help my reputation.
But that's not why I enjoy this genre.
I just like the same shit I liked in high school.
What fifteen-year-old isn't pissed at the world?
Maybe there are normal, well-adjusted people out there somewhere. But I don't know any of them.
With Mom already MIA—
I loved this song when I was a kid, because it felt like it was speaking to me. And, yeah, I dug the style. I got more into it. That stuck too.
It doesn't mean I still want the people who wrong me to drive off a bridge.
I don't see anyone accusing Griffin of wanting to score benzos because he listens to musicians who sound like they're about to overdose.
I don't see anyone accusing Dean or Chloe of doing heroin and looking for apartments in Seattle because they love grunge.
This is what I play—
Well, all the time.
It's one of the few constants in my life. One of the only things I've had since I was a kid.
I'm not giving that up, no matter how little the adolescent attitude suits a twenty-nine-year-old man.
The album hums as I fix beef and broccoli. It's a simple stir fry. It's easy to make for myself. With leftovers to spare.
Anyone who cooks will tell you the same thing—
It's not the same making dishes for one.
It's hard to find the motivation.
I take care of myself. Wes would say obsessively. But it's not about vanity.
It's about discipline.
Strong body, strong mind. I work out ten hours a week because it keeps me centered. Because I need it. If I don't force myself to follow a routine—
Who knows where my head will go? What I'll do with that free time?
It doesn't escape me—the genetic predisposition to addiction.
Yeah, fixing dinner for one is a little sad, but it's better than the alternative.
I finish cooking. Set the burner to warm. Check the rice.
