Page 1 of Dagger's Property
1
Wynter
Finally, the battle is won with my keys and the door unlocks. I step over the threshold and the room spins. My body swaying like I’m on a cruise ship sailing through rough waters. I honestly didn’t think I had that much to drink tonight. I started with a beer and then I had a martini. No. First I had the tequila shot, and then the beer, and then the martini. Followed by a Long Island iced tea.
Gross. My stomach’s getting queasy just thinking about it. I shouldn’t have mixed my liquors. Tomorrow is going to thoroughly suck. I need to make sure I drink a glass of water and take a couple of pills before I pass out.
“Wynter, is that you?”
I stumble backwards at the sound of her voice, catching myself against the door. I turn to right myself, my cheek smushed against the glass pane. And there go the taillights of myUber driver rushing down the road. Two little lights that are too far away to call him back.
He’s probably heading back to the bar to pick up another drunk moron. I wonder how many rides he gets in a night from that one place. I wonder how many drunk confessions he’s forced to listen to as he drives all over town. Apparently, alcohol is a truth serum that loosens the lips—a little too much.
I’m not sure why I felt compelled to tell him my shitty life story, but he got an earful. I’ll have to tip him extra, so he doesn’t leave me a bad review.
Warning:this one is seriously fucked up.
“Wynter? Is that you?”
“Nope. It’s a burglar who happens to have a key to the house.”
Who else would it be?
I push myself off the door and turn, trying to right myself again.
The light clicks on, and my irises feel like they’ve been set on fire from the brightness. I lose my balance again, reaching for the wall as her heavy sigh rushes through the room like a storm. I don’t know why she’s up. It’s nearly three in the morning; shouldn’t she be asleep? It’s too late to deal with her disappointment.
“Drunk again? What does that make this? Three nights in a row?”
The judgment is like an ice pick scraping across my nerves. One look in her eyes and I’ll be sober, so I keep mine trained down. I plop down on the bench and work to get my shoes off so I don’t get hell about tracking dirt through her pristine house, too.
“It’s the weekend, Mom. Don’t be such a curmudgeon.”
Shit, my voice isn’t helping my case. Neither is me toppling to the side as I try to pull my boot off. It only makes her huff louder.
“It’s Sunday, Wynter. You have classes tomorrow, or are you going to skipagain?”
And what does it matter if I do? It’s not like I’m learning anything anyway. It’s all useless information that I’ll never use again. Ever. Because when does one really need to know when the Parthenon was built or what the Pythagorean theorem is. It’s not like I’m going to become a history professor or an architect. My career bar is set much lower.
“Classes are recorded.” I finally get my other boot off and stand, fighting so hard not to sway again. I walk past her, feeling her judgment burning down my back. The fridge handle is my lifeline, keeping me steady. I pull a bottle of water from the shelf and chug it back.
“What is going on with you, Wynter? Did you and that boyfriend of yours break up?”
Boyfriend?Milton is not my boyfriend. He’s just a distraction. He’s a good time for when the boredom sets in. A friend with benefits. At one point, I’d hoped for more, but he made it very clear that I was a basket case. Unlovable is the word he used.
“Nothing’s going on with me. And if you’re referring to Milton, he’s just a fuck buddy.”
Her round eyes have me fighting back a laugh. I just scarred her delicate little ears with my blasphemous words. My mother likes to feign her piety, but she doesn’t even go to church. She seems to have forgotten the fact that when she was my age, she was pregnant and living with my father in the trailer park. So, she’s not really one who should be passing judgment. I think I’m faring pretty well in comparison.
“Your attitude is getting old, Wynter.”
And so is hers.
“I’m going to bed.” I grab another bottle of water from the fridge and turn, but my path is blocked.
“Not until you hand over that fake ID.”
She holds out her hand and I laugh. She’s actually trying to parent me. It’s a little late for that, isn’t it? About twenty years too late. If she wanted to play the role of the concerned mom, she should’ve started by taking custody of me. But she drove off with her new man, chasing down a “better” life, and forfeited any say in mine. If it weren’t for my stepdad, I wouldn’t be here.
