Page 35 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
I shove my hand into my pocket to fish out a few dollar bills—which are crinkled, of course—and quickly try to iron them out with my clammy fingers. Impatience cleaves through me while I stare dazedly at the cash validator. I take my (mostly) flattened bill and ease it into the slot, watching as it slips halfway in before the machine announces to the wholehallway with an ear-piecing screech that my money’s been declined.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
I smear both of my hands down my face, letting my fingers snag on my heavy eyelids.
Deep breaths, Gage. You need to stay calm for Cali.
With a determined grunt, I take the bill and straighten it on the edge of the wall, sawing it back and forth until…it pretty much looks the same as it originally did. I gently shove that fucker into the slot, wait for that infuriating screech to go off, but it never does. The bill slipped inside faster than a lubed-up cock.
I click one of the buttons for the last bag of Doritos and watch as the spiral pushes it forward comically slowly, the orange package of cheesy, heavily processed, triangular chips budging closer to the edge. And it tips forward enough that it could easily fall into the dispenser without additional help, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t move. The bag is stuck teetering on the ledge of its shelf.
This is some sick joke. It has to be. What did I do to you, God? I mean, I did do a lot of shit, but why do you have to punish me now? Couldn’t it wait? Like, until I got home? Or three years from now?
I’m aware that the hospital is nearly silent aside from hushed voices and machinery. But I’m also aware that if I don’t eat something soon, I’m going to turn into a fucking demon and start ransacking trashcans.
This might be controversial, but I start shaking the vending machine. Hard. My hip doesn’t allow me to kick it, so shaking is all I have. The whole thing comes to life in a cacophony of metal and springs, which can definitely be heard all the way out in the waiting room. There’s a point where the vending machine comes off theground, but none of the items inside wiggle free from their spiral prisons.
“Motherfucker,” I hiss under my breath, setting the machine back on the ground and waving off the concerned stares of passersby.
I bang my forehead against the germ-ridden glass, watching as my breath fogs the scuffed surface. Screw this night. Seriously. Screw everything about it.
“Do you need help?” a small, polite voice asks from beside me. It’s one of those kid voices that are bubbly sweet and basically ooze hope and sunshine and butterflies. It’s annoying as hell.
“No, thanks,” I grumble, peeling back my forehead and turning to face the ankle biter who decided to interrupt my sulking.
But upon recognition, my frustration ebbs, and my impatience swirls away along with it. It’s Teague, and he’s looking up at me with wide eyes, his puffy cheeks sprinkled in a red hue from the nightly chill.
It’s a breath of fresh air to see the little guy.
“Sorry, Teague. I didn’t see you there. How are you doing?” I ask, crouching down to his height, a consolatory grimace sliding onto my chapped lips. I ruffle his hair, but it doesn’t seem to diffuse the dark cloud lingering over his four-foot-seven body.
“I’m okay. Mom’s been sick for a long time,” he says in a disturbingly distant voice, no evidence of tears swimming in his eyes, and no tired bags under them alluding to sleep deprivation. He looks…normal. Maybe he’s in shock.
I don’t know what the mortality rate is for multiple sclerosis, but I know what it’s like to see your loved ones suffer in pain for an extended period of time.
Unexpected moisture licks my eyes, and my heart weakly pulses with sympathy. “I’m so sorry, buddy. I can only imagine how hard that must be.”
Teague ignores me. “Are you hungry?” he questions, dividinghis attentive eyes between me and the gloating vending machine.
“I’m fine, Little Man,” I assure him.
He frowns—which makes him look just like Cali—and rummages around for something in his pocket, brandishing a fistful of multicolored, half-melted gummy worms. I have no idea where his hand has been…or what he’s done with those things.
And suddenly, the riot in my gut is dead silent. “Let’s go see if your sister wants one, yeah?”
I walk him over to the waiting room with the expectation of finding Cali burrowed even further into my hoodie, but to my surprise, she’s standing and looking right at me. Her eyes are bloodshot, tears pearl on her lashes, and faint streaks have been left in her foundation from previous crying bouts. Her hair has the subtlety of a lion’s mane, and I can see dark stains of tears and snot on my hoodie from when she probably used it as a tissue.
“I want to go home,” she says quietly, hugging her arms around her midsection.
I cradle the side of her face, ghosting my thumb over the last remnants of water on her cheekbone, a smile emerging on my lips like a crocus shaking off powdered clumps of snow.
She came back to me. My girl came back to me.
I soften my voice, undoubtedly making Cali privy to the undercurrents of worry riding on my tongue. “Your home?”
“No. Yours.”
13
