Page 24 of Wilder Love
“Are you okay?”
“It’s all good,” he said, his eyes still on Shane who he hadn’t been formally introduced to yet. I got to my feet and stood next to Shane who handed me my camera.
“This is Shane. Shane, Dylan.”
Dylan ignored the introduction, rudely dismissing Shane who said it was good to meet him. He jerked his chin at me. “You got your keys?”
I fished them out of my pocket and tossed them to him. Keys in hand, he stalked away like the world had done him wrong. I watched him go before I turned to Shane, tempted to apologize for my brother but deciding against it. If he wanted to act like an asshole, that was his problem.
“I need to pack for Rincon,” Shane said, heading for the door. I used to be so good at leaving. Now I always stayed too long. I trailed after him, my flashlight leading the way, and sighed as he held the door open for me. Ducking past him, I jogged down the stairs.
“Merry Christmas, Shane.” We had stopped on the second-floor landing, and that moment of intimacy we’d shared on the roof only moments ago had been snatched away.
“You too. Will you be okay?” I hated it that he looked so concerned. This wasn’t how I wanted him to look at me.
“I’ll be great. It’s Christmas. It’s magical. My mom always makes it really special.” What a load of bullshit. Sometimes she did, sometimes she forgot to buy us presents. I gave him a big smile. He wasn’t buying it, I could tell, but he let it go.
He glanced in the direction of my apartment door and I thought he might say more, but all he said was “Catch you later” before he jogged down the stairs. I let myself into the apartment and joined Dylan on the sofa. We stared at the tree we’d put up last week. We decorated it with multi-colored lights, cheap red baubles, and glitter-encrusted reindeer. Dylan had thrown tinsel at the tree from across the room like he was pitching for the Dodgers. It looked like a drunk-ass tree, tilted too far to the left, but if you squinted, it looked okay. Festive. At least we had a tree this year.
“So, what’s the deal with you and that surfer?”
That surfer. “We’re just friends. He’s a good guy.” I shoulder-bumped him. “You could try being nicer, asshat.”
“Nicer?” He sounded puzzled by the concept. As if he truly didn’t know that he’d been rude. Sometimes he acted like such an ass.
“Yeah. Nicer.” We were quiet for a few minutes and I was thinking about my conversation with Shane which prompted me to ask Dylan the same question. “What’s your dream, Dylan?”
I expected him to ignore the question, so I wasn’t really waiting for an answer, just lost in my own thoughts and too lazy to move my ass off the sofa.
“My dream is to make shitloads of money.”
I turned my head to look at him. He was still staring at the tree, his face pensive. He smelled like boy sweat and laundry detergent and beer, but I didn’t think he was drunk. “So, you want to be rich? That’s your dream?”
“You’re saying it’s not a good one?”
“No. It is. I guess.” But I couldn’t hide my disappointment that his answer was so unoriginal. “Buthowdo you want to get rich? Like, what’s your passion? What do you love doing?”
“Getting high. I fucking love getting high.”
I sighed loudly. “Whatever. Forget I asked.” If he became a drug dealer, I would strangle him with my own two hands. Even though he hid it well and you’d never guess it, Dylan was smart and would have no problem getting into any college he wanted. As long as he didn’t blow it.
The front door opened, and I held my breath, waiting to see which version of Mom we’d be getting tonight. Last week I was walking on eggshells because every little thing I said or did had her flying off the handle. The week before that she was Suzy Homemaker, whipping up homemade meals that didn’t come from a can or the freezer. She’d scrubbed, mopped and cleaned every inch of the apartment until the surfaces gleamed and the scent of stale cigarettes was almost eradicated.
Now, she called to us from the kitchen, her voice normal. Not keyed up or flat. Just right. “Who wants hot chocolate?”
Dylan jumped up from the sofa and headed into the kitchen with me trailing behind. “Hey Mom. I’ll put these away,” Dylan said, nudging her away from the grocery bags she’d set on the counter.
“Thank you, baby.” She pulled him into a hug and kissed him on the cheek before holding him at arms-length as if just seeing him for the first time. “Look at you. My handsome boy is all grown up. When did you get so tall?” She laughed, and he shook his head, chuckling. Mom on a good day still had a knack of bringing a smile to Dylan’s face. He loved her, protected her, fought for her, and felt like he was supposed to be the man of the family. If Mom noticed that Dylan smelled like beer and weed or that I reeked of Sienna’s Christmas cheer, she didn’t mention it. Our house rules were lax. No curfew, nothing off limits to us, no minimum age restrictions.
Mom pulled me into a hug and held me too tightly and a little too long like she needed my strength, while Dylan unloaded the grocery bags and put the food away. I didn’t pull away until she released me. I never pulled away from Mom’s hugs. Pathetically, I craved her affection. You never knew when it would be the last one.
“I love you,” she said and kissed me on the forehead.
“Love you too, Mom.”
She clapped her hands together and did a little shimmy. “We need some Christmas music. Liven up the place. Get in the spirit.”
Fun Mom was home. We drank hot chocolate with marshmallows and ate store-bought sugar cookies shaped like Santa Clauses and microwave popcorn drizzled with butter, singing along to the Christmas carols on the radio. The TV played in the background—a cheesy black and white movie about a guy who tries to commit suicide and gets rescued by an angel.
