True (True Believers #1)(24)
Author: Erin McCarthy

“Turn the light on so your aim is better,” he said mildly. “All you did was waste a full beer.”

I knew then that whatever I had been expecting, it was probably going to be much, much worse.

Chapter Eight

The light did come on, and I saw that a woman was lying on the couch in nothing but an oversize T-shirt, her stick-thin legs bent at an awkward angle. Her brown hair was cut in layers, and she had bangs that seemed straight out of an eighties movie. Even in the dim lamp light, I could tell that her skin was broken out and there were dark circles under her eyes. She was glaring at Tyler and as she struggled to sit up, she pointed a finger in his direction.

“I know you stole my shit,” she said. “You need to get the f**k out of this house and never come back.”

“No, I’m not going anywhere until you give Riley guardianship of Jayden and Easton.” The way he spoke as he moved into the living room, bending over to pick up empty beer cans on the way, I figured this was a dialogue they had frequently.

“Fuck you. They’re my kids. What kind of a son tries to take his mother’s kids away from her?”

“One who knows his mother is a drug addict.” With his free hand, he took mine and led me past the couch into the kitchen, making sure that I was on the far side of his mother. There was corded tension in his neck muscles, and he was gripping me tightly. While his words were mild and calm, he seemed aware of everything that was going on around us, and while I was a little scared, mostly I felt sad that this was how he had to live. That every day must be a constant assault of words, and home was never a safe place. His mother didn’t even seem to notice I was with Tyler, and I had to admit, I was grateful. I’d never heard a mother swear at her child like that and it was unnerving.

He dumped the cans in an overflowing trash can in the kitchen and flicked the light on. He turned the hall light on, too, and knocked on the first door. “It’s me, unlock the door.”

Tyler pulled me into the shadows of the hallway, away from the living room. He tried the knob and popped his head in. “What was she doing? Yeah?”

I couldn’t hear the responses, nor could I see into the room. What I did see was Tyler’s mom stumbling toward him, her hand raised.

Without thinking, I let out a cry.

Tyler turned just in time to get clocked. His mother just hauled off and punched him in the face.

“Oh my God!” I blurted out, unable to stop myself. I had never been that close to anyone getting hit before, and I couldn’t comprehend that it was his mother who had done it. His mother. I stood behind him, helpless, patting my pocket for my phone, wondering if I should call the cops.

But Tyler just took the hit and gave a sigh of exasperation. He reached out and took hold of her wrist as she raised her arm to land another blow. “Stop,” he told her, and his tone was gentle, not angry. It was like he was speaking to a spooked animal. “Let’s go sit down.”

She sagged, the fight in her seeming to disappear. She let him lead her back to the couch. “Who are you?” she asked me, her eyes glassy, as she sank into the floral cushions. Her hand felt around on the floor for her beer. She spilled it on the retrieval and sucked the liquid off her arm before taking a long drink.

“I’m Rory.”

“You Tyler’s girlfriend?”

I could feel him tense next to me, but I was determined not to make this harder for him than it already was. He had gestured for his brothers to come out of their bedroom, and two boys, one in his late teens, who clearly had Down syndrome, and another, small and wiry with dark features and curly hair, moved into the kitchen, silently.

I shook my head. “We’re friends.” It was the least complicated description of what we were, since I wasn’t really sure what that was anyway.

“Well, don’t get pregnant,” she told me. “It will f**k up your life. Trust me on this one.”

What was I supposed to say to that? Appalled, I just stared at her, the smell of cat dander and dirty clothes and beer clogging my nostrils. The stench of rotting food radiated from the kitchen, and I saw his brothers were both in the refrigerator foraging for food, like they’d been trapped in their bedroom for a significant amount of time.

Tyler sighed. “Mom, for once, can you just shut the hell up? God.”

She sat up straighter. “You’re the worst one of them all! I got fat when I was pregnant with you, and then your father cheated on me with that whore at the gas station and then every day since then, you’ve been such a pain in my ass.” She gestured to me, sloshing beer out of the can. “I got one kid trying to take my other kids from me, I got this one stealing my drugs, and then I have the retard and the mistake.”

“Don’t call them that,” Tyler said, and his voice was hard, edgy.

“Why not? It’s true. Retard, retard, retard,” she yelled in the direction of the kitchen.

His brother turned, his lips pursed. “Yeah, Mom?”

“Don’t answer to that!” Tyler said, clearly angry. “That is not your name. Your name is Jayden, and you are not a retard.”

“Yes, I am,” Jayden said, sounding confused. He was wearing an Angry Birds T-shirt and he nervously pushed up his wire-frame glasses. In his hand was a moldy hunk of cheese.

“No, you’re not. A retard is someone who is stupid and you are not stupid, do you understand me?” Tyler reached out and took the cheese from him. “Don’t eat that, buddy, okay? I’ll go to the grocery store in a little bit. Easton has some bread and I know there’s still peanut butter. Make yourself a sandwich, alright?”

“Okay, Tyler.” He went over to Easton, who was cramming a handful of dried cereal into his mouth.

Easton had a deer-in-the-headlights look, like he was waiting to get hit, which maybe he was. He also wasn’t Caucasian. He was biracial, and I thought of how it must feel to hear his mother’s words, calling him a mistake. I couldn’t even imagine.

Clearly she didn’t like not being the center of attention. She stood up and walked into the kitchen, running her hand through her ratty hair, her huge shirt dingy and thin enough to show the outline of her panties underneath. “Yep, I have a fabulous life. Husband in jail. Four shitty, ass**le sons. How could I get so lucky?” she asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

It was out of my mouth before I could stop it. But the logical option was so obvious to me that I said it before I could prevent it. Besides, she had infuriated me. Who stood there and called her kids ass**les? “I don’t think luck is part of the equation. It’s a failure to make good choices.”