Breaking Even(80)

When a tear falls from his eye, I’m actually surprised.

“You’re going to blame me forever, aren’t you? You’re going to hate me forever for being a simple human. I didn’t know your mother was struggling, son. I didn’t know she was capable of doing that with you in the house. I would have gotten her help.”

Memories flash around my head, and I shut them down. Just like I always do.

“She was struggling because she was married to a self-absorbed workaholic that didn’t give a damn about her because he was too busy being a coldhearted son of a bitch.”

His jaw clenches, and he glares at me. “Don’t you dare blame me for her illness! It was a fucking chemical imbalance. My actions did not cause her issues.”

“No. You’re right. Your actions are just the reasons she slit her wrists.”

I turn to away from him, ignoring him as he follows and calls my name. I don’t have anything else to say to him. He never tried hard enough. Just like I didn’t.

I was just ten, and she didn’t care that I had to be the one to find her—to slip in her blood, to cry over her cold, still body. She didn’t love me enough to live, but she loved him enough to die.

Love is a coldblooded murderer. Love is a blanket of lies and spared truths. It’s a calculated monster that drains you of everything you have until you’re a husk of the person you once were.

“She didn’t kill herself because of me. It wasn’t like I was the only man she loved. She killed herself because of the disease that ate away at her mind. I could have gotten her help if I had known.”

I pause at the door, both of my hands fisted as the words process. It wasn’t like I was the only man she loved. “Don’t ever say that again.”

“You know it’s true. You can blame me all you want, but it’s not my fault. It’s not her fault. It’s just something terrible that happened too long ago for it still to be ruling you.”

I don’t have the energy to fight with him right now. My anger is still as absent as it has been lately, and all that is driving me is the pain I thought I had buried long ago. I just want to get the hell out of here and go home—where it’s quiet, peaceful, and smells like the girl I should have pushed away much sooner.

***

RYE

“So he said your mom cheated on him?” Ethan asks.

Wren sits back in his chair while I dump another one of the boxes on my bed, scattering the contents as I stagger and take another sip of the whiskey.

“Essentially,” I say, staggering again while throwing a trophy across the room.

I hate trophies.

They both stare as the pieces fall from the wall, carrying a few chips of sheetrock with it on the way to the floor.

“Did you punch him?” Wren asks cautiously, just as I grab a baseball from another box.

I throw it across the room, and it goes through the sheetrock and disappears into the wall.

I hate baseballs.

“Nope,” I say, reaching for the bottle of whiskey and refilling my glass. Ah, fuck it. I’ll just drink from the bottle.

“Do you believe him?” Ethan asks unsurely as my hand hovers over a picture frame.

The picture inside is of me at Little League. I take a painful breath, and then I pick the picture frame up and throw it across the room, watching it as it shatters against the wall.

I hate pictures.

“I don’t have to believe him.”

For the first time since I was a kid, I think about the dark side of my mother. The things I’ve always felt guilty for remembering. Her memory is supposed to be treasured, not tainted. She’s not here to defend herself, and in the end, I was the one who failed her the most. She deserves me to defend her now.

“What does that mean?” Wren asks, his voice quiet, acting as though he’s worried the next thing will be aimed at his head.

I don’t hate Wren. I don’t feel like shattering his skull.

Yet.

“It means he already knows she was cheating,” Ethan says, and my jaw clenches.

They both take a deep breath, and I grab a book of baseball cards and throw the entire thing against the wall. It doesn’t do any damage. It just drops to the ground with a loud thud.

I hate baseball cards.

“Are you okay?” Wren asks just as I throw a basketball.

They both duck when it ricochets off the wall and barrels toward their heads. Ethan catches it when it tries to bounce off the other wall, and he puts it beside him.

I hate basketballs.

“I’m fucking great. Can’t you tell?” I mutter dryly, grabbing two golf balls.

I hate golf balls.

***

BRIN

The first sound of something crashing startles me awake, and I sit there and listen, trying to see if I was just dreaming. But the loud banging at the door, proves that something is going on.