Four Years Later (One Week Girlfriend #4)(21)
Author: Monica Murphy

The look in my mom’s wacked-out eyes just now was unforgettable, too. I need to get her the hell out of here. Before Chelsea sees her. Before Mom starts bad-mouthing Fable again. I want to scream at her. Ask her why the f**k she’s so selfish. Doesn’t she realize how much she’s hurt Fable? How much she’s hurt me? Mom is a freaking grandma now. Autumn is her first grandchild, her blood flows through the baby’s veins, and it’s like she doesn’t even give a shit.

I’m not sure if she’s aware that Autumn even exists.

I find the wad of cash in my jacket pocket and pull a couple of twenties and a fifty-dollar bill from it. I shouldn’t give her this. I told myself not even five minutes ago I wouldn’t. I’m funding her drug habit and that is such bullshit, but when it comes to my mom, I can’t stop myself.

She’s my bad habit. The one I just can’t seem to quit.

Frustrated with myself, feeling weak and stupid, I go back out into the living room to find Mom pacing around like she can’t keep still. She keeps rubbing her bare arms as though something’s crawling on her skin and she’s trying to brush it away. She doesn’t see me yet, and I stare at her in dawning horror.

There’s something going on here I don’t want to face. I don’t have time to deal with it right now. I’d rather shove money in her hand and send her away. But I can’t keep on doing that forever. Avoiding my mom isn’t going to fix this. Fix her.

Can she ever be fixed?

“Here.” I rush toward her and grab her wrist, making her splay out her hand. I slap the cash into her palm and her fingers curl around it, crushing it so hard it turns into a crumpled wad of green. “Don’t come back for at least two weeks. I’m not your personal bank.”

“Fuck you,” she spits at me just before she turns on her heel and runs out the door.

Shock renders me frozen as I stare out the still open front door. She came and left, just like that. No thank you, no “you’re the greatest son alive,” none of that. Just a demand and a curse—that’s all I get for my troubles.

I’m the world’s biggest f**king idiot.

Anger streams through my blood, makes me stalk around the house with clenched fists and a broken heart. Why the hell does she do this to me? Why do I let her get to me every single time? I wish I were more like Fable. She’s pushed Mom right out of her life, and with no regret. Moved on with someone she loves, someone who takes care of her. Created a family out of nothing. And though I’m a part of that family and I know it, it’s still hard. The distance between us makes it harder.

I’m here and the three of them are there. Drew and Fable and Autumn. It used to be Drew and Fable and Owen.

Now I’m just Owen.

Sometimes, I hate that. Growing up, moving on. Being alone. Finding my footing, when all I do is stumble around in the dark. Fuck.

I need a hit.

Glancing at the clock on the microwave, I see I have less than five minutes before Chelsea’s supposed to show up. Just enough time to take a drag off a joint, maybe even a couple of hits if I’m fast. I have one I rolled a few nights ago stashed in the top drawer of my dresser and I go to it as if in a daze. Pull the drawer open, pull the joint out, grab the lighter, and flick it again and again until there’s a flame.

Then I’m lighting it. Sucking up the smoke and the seed, inhaling until it fills my throat, slips into my lungs, and I feel the familiar, pleasurable burn. I exhale, thin tendrils of smoke escaping from my mouth, and I close my eyes briefly. Let it take me away to another place. A simpler time when I didn’t have all this goddamn pressure weighing on me.

I take another puff and then stub out the joint against the side of my dresser, not giving a shit if I’m messing up the wood. Stash everything away quick, my buzz already washing over me, zipping through my veins, settling in my still pissed-off brain and making all my troubles slowly melt into nothing. The haze comes, warm and comfortable and just enough to leave me numb. I want to forget. Forget Mom and Fable and my grades and my job and football. Focus on the here and now and a girl named Chelsea who thinks she’s coming over here to help me with my homework assignments.

That’s the last thing I want to do with her. But I’m afraid that’s all I’m ever going to get.

“Hello? Anyone home?”

Her sweet voice calls to me and I leave my room to find Chelsea standing in the middle of the living room, a hesitant look on her face as she looks around. When she spots me, I see the relief wash over her and I smile. Feeling cocky, feeling good, feeling like nothing can get me down now.

Not with Chelsea here, lighting up the room like sunshine and flowers and pure, unadulterated beauty.

“Hey,” I say, letting my gaze roam over her unabashedly. She’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeved white top that clings to her br**sts and makes me wanna cling to them, too. Her backpack is slung over her shoulder, her smile tentative as she sets the bulky, heavy-looking object down on the floor beside the couch.

“Hi. Um, your front door was wide open, so I hope you don’t mind that I just walked in,” she says, waving toward the now closed door.

“No problem. Glad you made it.” I’m sincere as hell about that. I am so damn glad she made it. I’d be climbing the walls if she weren’t here.

“Are you ready to get to work?” She kicks at her backpack. “I brought some stuff that I printed up, but I’m hoping you know what you need to do.”

“Yeah, I totally know what to do.” I wave a hand, dismissing her worry as I approach her. She takes a step back and I brush by her, wishing I could reach out and grab her. Kiss her.

This is the weed talking. It has to be.

She squints at me, watching as I go to the dining table and grab the folder I keep with my missing assignments in it. “Are you all right?”

“I’m feeling pretty f**king amazing.” I turn to face her once more, noticing how she’s looking at me as if I’ve lost my head. She might be right. Mom coming over, the weed, having Chelsea standing here in front of me looking cute as hell—it’s all sending my head spinning out of control.

She makes a face at my choice of words, then leans over and unzips her backpack, digging inside for all the work she wants me to do, I’m sure. I stare at her ass, tilting my head to the side so I can get a better view, and when she turns she catches me.

Her gaze narrows. She is such a suspicious little thing. “Are you checking me out?”