Five more minutes of trying to work on my history essay—a subject I normally love—and I close my eyes, falling back against the couch with a defeated groan. I cover my eyes with the sweater paws of my oversized hoodie.
The damn kiss with Devlin won’t leave my head. The sweep of his tongue, his grip on my waist, and the muffled groan he made are all seared into my memory. I had no idea kissing could be like that. The few kisses I’ve experienced have been sweet, awkward, or void of feeling.
Kissing Devlin was overwhelming. Uncontrolled. Unforgettable.
Ruinous.
A coil of heat twines my stomach into a delicious tangle. “This is ridiculous. And pathetic. Get it together.”
I’m confused. That’s all. There’s no way I’ll let him convince me to kiss him again. Even if he pays me one million dollars.
Well…
Okay, it wouldn’t be a hardship for that much. I fall sideways on the couch, stretching my arms above my head. A lopsided smile lifts the edge of my mouth as I daydream. With one million bucks I could buy Mom a nice house, a reliable car, wipe out the debts and bills, and still have some left over to pay for college.
In the middle of imagining picking out the perfect art history classes for my college schedule, the rattle of the door startles me into sitting upright.
Mom walks through the door hours before she’s due home from her evening shift at the diner. Her shoulders droop and her face is too pale, making the bruised bags beneath her eyes stand out starkly.
“Mom!” I pop up from the couch and rush over. “What are you doing home?”
She releases a shuddering breath and takes my hand. Her fingers are ice cold.
“Oh, baby girl,” she whispers raggedly.
I don’t like the broken sound of her voice. Worry weighs down my stomach like bricks covered in sludge, sticking together and creating an enormous mass of discomfort.
“Come sit down.” Lacing my fingers with hers, I guide her to the small table in the kitchenette.
Once she’s seated, she puts her head in her hands, bony elbows on the table. Her waitress uniform hangs from her small frame. If I’m skinny, Mom is almost deathly thin. She could never keep weight on. And it has always been hard when our meals are rationed throughout the month.
It would be better if we qualified for food stamps, but Mom makes too much. The system is a joke to everyone like us, slipping through the cracks because we have too much income to qualify for government assistance programs that would be a huge help, and have too little income to sustain ourselves without worrying. Ridgeview is still an expensive place to live, even on the rough side of town. Most of Mom’s paycheck from the diner goes toward rent on the trailer, then the bills in order of priority and consequences. It’s a horrible existence to constantly dread if we can afford our bills or if we’ll get to eat from week to week.
An anguished sob escapes Mom and she scrunches her hair in her clawed hands. My heart shatters as I wrap her in my arms.
“Don’t cry,” I whisper, as broken as she is. I hate seeing her cry. It wrecks me, stabbing my heart like lethal daggers. “It’s okay. Just breathe, Mom. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. We always do.”
The words feel hollow, but they won’t stop coming. I have to do something to stop her tears.
Mom turns with a strained whimper, banding her arms around my waist and burying her head in my chest. Tears sting my eyes and clump my lashes as I stroke her hair, soothing her with gentle shushes. We stay like that until she calms down.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says repeatedly in a tight voice. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
Helplessness shackles me, clamping me in iron. How can I fix this?
Mom pats my back and pushes me off gently. I lean back to give her room and she peers up at me. She immediately bursts out laughing.
“Oh my god,” she breathes through weak laughter. Her shoulders shake under my hands. “You look like a raccoon.”
I blink, swiping away tear tracks from under my eyes. My thumb comes back smeared with mascara. I huff out a laugh and shake my head.
Giving her a wry smile, I hug her. “Let me go wash my face, then I’ll make some tea.”
When I return, Mom has her name tag in her hand, tracing the plastic letters that spell Macy. I plug in our electric kettle that I found at the thrift shop downtown and pull out cups and tea bags. As I make the tea, Mom remains quiet.
It scares me when she breaks down. She doesn’t usually cry in front of me, so for her to lose her composure instead of going to cry in her room, I know it’s bad.