I turned around and flashed my mother a scowl. She knew exactly what I was asking. She raised her palms up.

“Of course I tried to check if he is home. I guess he stayed out last night.”

Translation: East got tail and never bothered hauling his ass back home.

“Surprised you dragged your royal ass here. East keeps you up to date with my BS.”

I avoided my parents so often, East had resorted to calling them weekly, just to let them know I was still alive. He gave them a curated version of my activities, taking out the underground fights, dirty hookups, and public feuds with professors.

“I don’t want to bother him too much.” Mom reached to try to fix my collar.

I swatted her hand away.

“Shame you don’t extend this courtesy to me.”

I got into the kitchen and grabbed milk out from the fridge, drinking straight from the carton. Mom took a seat at the table, trying to shrink into herself and take as little space as possible.

“You haven’t been home since you started studying here.”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know.” I wiped my milk moustache with the back of my hand, shoving the carton back into the fridge and slamming it shut. I took a seat across from her. She wasn’t leaving before grilling my ass. Might as well get it over with.

Mom put her hands on the table, staring at them, not me. “How do you like it here?”

“I like it fine.”

“Very up-and-coming, isn’t it? Nice town.”

“Fucking lovely.”

“Think you want to stay here after you graduate?”

“I don’t think past what I want to have for dinner.”

I was careful not to ask anything about how things were back home. It felt like a slippery slope that could lead to an actual conversation.

“We miss and love you so much.”

“Bet you love the weekly allowance even more.” I cocked an eyebrow.

Her big brown gaze sprang up from her hands then scurried to the peeling wallpaper. Her eyeballs were coated with a thick layer of tears.

I sighed, sprawling on the chair, folding my arms over my chest and staring at the ceiling.

“What’s up with you, anyway?” I grumbled.

“I’m doing well, thank you for asking. Better, on all fronts. Still on the meds. Still working at Walmart. I got promoted last month. I’m a cashier now. It’s a nice environment, and I get to go out, talk to people.”

Her fingers were inching to touch mine. I wanted to throw up.

“I make my own money now.” She puffed her chest out, gaining more confidence. “Things are not as bleak as they look, Westie. We’ll get out of this mess soon. But we never expect you to help us financially. It’s not on you.”

Only it was on me. It was my fault they were in this situation in the first place. Mom finally put her hand on mine, leaning toward me.

“Let’s go out downtown. I want to buy you soap and shampoo and new shirts. Maybe get you a nice haircut. I want to see the town you live in. Do the whole mom-thing I didn’t get the chance to do when you first moved here. Please, Westie?”

Her fingernails clawed at my skin, so desperately they nearly produced blood.

She wasted the hard-earned money I sent her by booking herself a surprise flight. Then suggested we’d go on a shopping spree.

My knee-jerk reaction was to call her out on it, but I knew if I threw her out, it would bite me in the ass in the form of East giving me hell. Also, I would feel guilty.

Spending time with my mother was so low on my to-do list, you couldn’t find it unless you read that whole shit through. Still, even I recognized taking her out would be less soul-crushing than sitting here with her, one-on-one, and face the artillery of questions and attempted hugs she would no doubt throw my way.

“What do you say?” A hesitant, synthetic smile spread on her face. It looked wrong. Like a wonky picture on a bare wall. I knew what she looked like when she smiled for real.

I still remembered, even if vaguely.

I squeezed her hand in mine and felt the pressure dissipating from her body, all at once, as she dragged me in for a hug.

“Whatever.”

An hour later, we were out on the town, carrying approximately a thousand nylon bags full of socks, shirts, toiletries, and groceries. My hair was trimmed into an actual cut. Buzzed at the sides, longer at the top.

I felt rich, in a screwed-up, poor boy way.

I wasn’t used to getting new shit. My socks were so holey I stopped wearing them about six months ago, and when my shirts became too faded to have a distinguished color, I dealt with the problem by wearing them inside out.

Soap and toothpaste I did use (life sucked badly enough without actively preventing myself from getting laid), but I always went for the cheap crap you could buy in bulk at the dollar store, or better yet—hit a party or two during the weekend and raid the bathroom like it was Target.

Mom didn’t spend a lot of money by any stretch of the imagination, and one hundred percent of that money came from me. Still, the new shirts and briefs made me feel like one of those nerdy chicks in movies, who got a makeover consisting of an entire new wardrobe and a personality implant while she was at it.

Who the fuck was I?

What the fuck was wrong with me?

The answer was clearly everything. Everything was wrong with me. Because I’d started imagining Tex laying her angel blue eyes on my new briefs, admiring how pristinely white they were. Yesterday, her innocent gaze made me feel like we were doing something dirty. And dirty was a realm in which I’d thrived.

Then I remembered another hookup probably wasn’t in the cards for us.

I’d told her flat-out I could only do casual, but she wasn’t a casual type of girl. She said she’d think about it, but really, it was a no-brainer. Couldn’t blame her. She deserved a whole lot more than my delinquent ass had to offer.

“How about I make dinner?” Mom looped her arm in mine when we pushed the door open, back at my house.

“Pretty sure neither of us can afford a restaurant meal after this, so go ahead,” I muttered.

East was there, lying on the couch in his boxers, texting. He welcomed us with a loud fart.

“’Sup, Sir Crabs-a-lot?”

“Easton Liam Braun!” my mother screeched, and I let out a genuine laugh for the first time today. When East heard her shriek, he jumped up from the couch so fast he nearly made a dent in the ceiling.

“Mrs. St. Claire.” He flashed his good boy smile, hurrying into his bedroom. He hopped back into the living room with one leg in his sweatpants, the other still out, and wobbled in her direction. She sucked him into a viselike grip that was supposed to be a hug, peppering his cheeks with wet, motherly kisses. I glanced at his crotch. He had a semi. He was probably sexting someone. Fucking gross. I made a note to punch him in the face until his nose curved out of the back of his head for touching my mom while he was aroused.

“You look wonderful, Easton. You’re doing a fine job here. Your momma is very proud.” She pinched both his cheeks and tried to make them wobble, but East’s baby fat was long gone.

Now would be a good time to stop touching this pervert, Mother.

The thought was so natural and funny and old-West, as opposed to the newer, miserable version, a pang of nostalgia hit me.