Page 41 of Broken Pieces
But I don’t want that for her.
I should have told her Samantha is my cousin. Set the record straight before she could twist the story into something else.
But then I saw her face, the jealousy in her eyes, and the hit landed harder than it should have. The whole thing was fucked-up. Selfish. Wrong. And I liked every second of it.
I liked that she cared enough to hate the idea of me with someone else.
Not many people at school realize Sam and I are related.
I do not hand out details about my life, and Sam sure as hell does not either.
The only time our worlds collide is when my mother shows up like a storm no one invited, knocking on Sam’s door, beggingher Dad (my Uncle) for money. That is how my mother works. Always needing. Always taking. Never stopping.
I don’t tell people about my mother.
About the way she grinds me down until nothing’s left. Even with Sam, the truth stays unspoken. Some things are too ugly to put into words. But the weight gnaws at me anyway.
If my mother ever found out I had cash hidden, if she knew about the money stuffed in my bag from the shifts I grind through, she’d rip it out of my hands without thinking twice. She’d bleed me dry and still tell me I owed her more. But she won’t. Because no one realizes what I’ve got stashed.
That money is all I’ve got.
My shot.
My way out.
Proof that I don’t have to rot here forever.
A place that’s mine. Walls that don’t watch me. Air I can finally breathe without choking on it.
I make my way back to the house.
Every step feels heavier, dragging me closer to the bullshit waiting on the other side of those walls.
My pulse has finally eased from Skylar, but now it shifts into something else, anticipation, dread, the kind of burn you get when you know you are about to be torn apart again.
Dolores.
She will be waiting. She always is.
That woman could sniff out a mistake faster than anyone I have ever known. And me, I am her favorite punching bag.
My shoulders brush the fence as I slip through the slat in the back.
The boards snag against my shirt, catching, pulling.
I blow out a breath and edge toward the back door.
My hand trembles against the handle. I tell myself the shake comes from the cold.
Inside, the house is loud, a storm that never passes.
Three young boys throw a football across the room, the ball smacking against the wall with a hollow thud.
“Outside!” Dolores’s voice booms from somewhere in the house.
The kids freeze for half a second before one of them catches the ball, rolling his eyes as if he already knows better than to test her.
The other two follow, dragging their feet toward the door. The last one lingers, smaller than the rest, his eyes darting up at me.
