He glares up at me. “I’m tired, Finley.”
“Stop whining and get up. You can sleep when we get home.”
“I don’t want to go home.” It’s like he’s five. All the thoughts about how sweet he looked as he slept die a quick and painful death.
“You can’t sleep here.”
“Why not?”
“Uh, because it’s cold and uncomfortable and because I said so.”
He moans again but at least makes a half-hearted effort to stand. It takes a few minutes of tugging and cajoling, but eventually, I’ve got him out of the tub and on his feet—wobbly feet—but progress is progress.
We shuffle around the side of the squat wood building, Jacob’s arm around my neck.
I keep my gaze focused on our faded-green pickup truck while he drags his feet, his weight heavy across my back, his boots running into mine as he stumbles next to me.
We’re crossing the entrance from the main road when he comes to an abrupt halt.
“Wait.” The word slurs out of his mouth. Then he bends over, dragging me down with him, and throws up all over both our shoes. He sinks the rest of the way to the ground.
“Shit.”This is not happening.I tug on him, holding my breath. “Jacob, get up.”
He doesn’t move, lying on the asphalt, a boneless lump of stank.
I glance around. At least there aren’t any witnesses to this humiliation.
I grab his arm again and yank. “Come on, we have to move out of the way. We’re blocking the entrance.”
“It’s fine.” He relaxes even more against the hard ground. “Comfy here.”
“It’s not fine. Jacob. If you don’t move your ass, I’m going to kick it.”
No response.
“I’ll tell the whole town about that time you microwaved your pee.”
“No, you won’t,” he murmurs, eyes still shut.
I don’t know whether to cry, scream, stomp him with my vomit-covered shoe, or all three.
A car pulls halfway into the lot, coming to a halt a few feet away—the tail end of the vehicle sticking out onto the main road.
“Just perfect,” I mutter. “Jake, get up!” I yell directly into his ear.
He doesn’t even flinch.
Standing, I turn toward the driver of the vehicle and lift my arms in the universal symbol for “I don’t know.”
They honk.
I lift my arms again. “You want to come out here and help me?” I call out, but their windows are rolled up, so I’m not sure if they can hear me or if they care.
They honk again.
Nope. They don’t care.
Why me? Why can’t I have a normal life where things go right once in a while instead of everything always going from bad to worse to absolute hell?