Right Kind of Wrong(43)
I clear my throat. “Maybe you should wait until morning before heading home.”
She pulls a face. “Why?”
“Because it’s late, and dark, and you’re probably tired of being on the road—”
“Which is why I want to go home.”
“It’s a long drive and even with your glasses—”
“Oh my God. What are you, my ophthalmologist now?” She huffs. “My vision is fine.”
“You’re vision is not fine, but even if it were I still think it might be a good idea to get some sleep before heading home.”
Her jaw shifts in anger. “I’m not wasting another penny on hotel rooms—especially not when my own damn bed is less than two hours away.”
I shift my own jaw. “Why does everything have to be a fight with you?”
“Because you keep trying to control me and tell me what to do!”
“For the last time, I’m not trying to control you, Jenna!” I grip the steering wheel. “I’m just suggesting things to keep you safe. You’re the one who’s trying to control everything.”
Samson pokes his head between the front seats again and woozily says, “Are you two sleeping together?”
“No!” we shout.
He nods. “Well that explains a lot.”
“Shut up, Samson.” I turn down the street I grew up on and come to a stop in front of our small house.
It’s gray with lopsided porch steps and a square of dead grass in the front yard. Bittersweet memories accompany the sight of the yellow front door and the small wicker table and chair on the porch. Good things happened here. So did bad things. Something thick and hot tugs at my throat as I look over my childhood home.
There were many days I thought I’d never see it again. Days I was certain I was going to die. On those days, I tried to focus on the good memories of growing up in the little gray house. Wrestling with my brothers. My mom sneaking cookies into my lunch for school. The good outweighs the bad. Now, at least.
Everything about it looks the same as the day I left except the dozens of wind chimes hanging from the porch roof.
I murmur, “What the hell…?”
Samson follows my gaze and groggily explains, “That’s Ma’s new thing. You know how she’s always trying to quit smoking? Well she bought some kind of chime-making kit thingy on one of those late-night TV commercials and now, instead of sucking on a cigarette every two hours, she whittles together a wind chime instead.”
“That’s…”—I exit the car with a frown—“strange.”
He scoffs. “And obnoxious.” Tumbling out of the backseat, Samson barely catches himself before glowering at the hanging chimes. “When the wind picks up, it’s like living in the bell tower of a thousand churches. I feel like Quasi-fucking-modo up in here.”
Jenna gets out and we watch him stagger toward the porch steps.
“Maybe Mom’s doing it on purpose,” I say. “So you’ll move out already.”
He spins around and points a wobbly finger at me. “Hey, it’s not my fault Trixie kicked me out of her apartment and made me homeless.”
“Uh, yeah it is,” I say. “You slept with her best friend—”
“I did not sleep with her. I just slept with her,” he says, bumbling over his words. “Why is that so hard for people to understand?”
My mom’s voice breaks into the night. “Maybe because you’re always spouting off about it when you’re hammered.” Backlit by the lamplight in the living room, her silhouette stands with a hand on a hip in the doorframe. “People don’t care what a drunk man declares, Samson. Now quit crying about Trixie and get inside before I make you sleep in the yard.”
I cringe, hoping Jenna doesn’t think I was raised by some crazy woman. “Hey, Mom—”
“Trixie, my ass,” Mom mutters, her eyes glued to Samson as he trudges inside the house and flops facedown on the couch. “Sleeping outside is probably ten times better than sleeping in that girl’s bed.”
“Mom—”
“What the hell kind of name is Trixie, anyway? Can’t you boys find women without whore names—”
“Mom!” I raise my voice and she finally stops talking and turns around. “This is Jenna,” I say, inhaling sharply through my nose.
She squints through the darkness and manages to look slightly mortified when she realizes we have company. “Oh, hell.”
I gesture from Jenna to the crazy woman standing on the porch. “Jenna, meet my well-meaning, but very tacky, mother.”
Amusement sparks in Jenna’s eyes as she smiles. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Oliver.”