I shift my shoulders, popping the joint. “Fuck.”
“It wasn’t as bad as all that,” she assures me in her thick accent. “He didn’t even go up to see her. Lucky. Nasty piece of work, he is. Always picking on the poor woman.” Liesel shakes her head disapprovingly. She’s in her fifties now, but still has the same stern face I remember when I was kid. She’s the complete opposite of my mom. Liesel’s got pure steel running through her veins. She comes to work every day in sharp, structured blazers, and doesn’t stick around long enough to know just how far beyond ‘picking’ Heston likes to take things.
I mutter, “Tell me about it.”
“It might help if you stuck around this year,” she tells me, yet again, shaking a finger in my face. “Mothers need their children.”
I can hardly contain my laugh. “Yeah, sure.” Maybe Mom needs me, but Heston? What a riot. “Can’t, though. I’m going back today.”
Liesel throws her hands in the air, muttering something sharply German under her breath as she walks away.
If she knew the deal, she’d probably understand. I don’t live at Preston because I want to. I live there because it’s the only way I can give my mom some measure of peace.
You’d think our property—a converted golf club of eight total buildings—would be sprawling enough to keep Heston and her from ever needing to be in the same room. He could take the pool house. He could have lived in the cottage at the back of property and had himself a grand old fucking time. He could have even probably scored the entire length of the main house’s basement, which has two kitchens, four bathrooms, a pool, and enough space to comfortably entertain both the swim and football teams.
But no, not Heston. His top priority when it comes to accommodations is having someone close enough to torment. I almost feel bad for the people he’s going to college with—a new, exciting spread of victims for him to play with. Almost. I’m currently too engaged with worrying about his current victims to give it much thought.
My mom’s rooms are separate from my dad’s, and for as long as I was old enough to notice, always have been. It’s a sweet setup consisting of its own living space, but I can’t stand the way she holes up in there.
When I climb the massive staircase and walk my way to the heavy double doors, I take a moment to prepare myself.
She’s not dressed, but that’s no surprise. The blinds are still closed and it’s smoky, the stale scent of cigarettes hanging thick in the air. She’s sitting in the chaise in her silk robe, trying to gather her hair up. Putting herself together. Trying to make it seem not so bad.
“Sebastian!” Her attempt at a smile is watery, ruined by the tracks running down her cheeks. “I was hoping you’d come see me before you left. It is today, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I say, pathetically touched that she managed to keep track of time. “I’m about to head out.”
She covertly wipes her cheeks, trying another bright smile. It hurts to watch, these moments where she tries to pull herself together like a brave little toaster. “I’m glad, because I—I got you something. It’s here, see? Open it, see?”
I gingerly hold the envelope she thrusts in my hand, but can’t focus on anything but her wet eyes. “Mom, why are you crying?”
She flaps a hand. “Oh, you know how I get. It’s not important.” She pushes at the envelope, imploring, “Open it!”
“It is important,” I argue, but know better than to push by now. She probably spends half of her life crying. Depressive episodes like hers don’t come with a reason. That doesn’t mean I’ll stop asking.
Sighing, I tear open the envelope, revealing a gift card to the local pet supply store. I know instantly why, and it’s more of a gesture than anything. I probably have enough money in my bank account to buy the pet supply store—like, the entire business.
She meets my smile with her own—this one a touch more organic. “You be sure to feed those poor little kitties, now. Make sure they’re getting enough. Don’t skimp!”
“I won’t,” I promise, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “The cats are going to be just fine.”
“And send me some pictures!” she demands, eyes going bright at her own suggestion.
My mother frets like no other. The second I made an offhanded comment about the feral cat colony at school, she was fretting. She probably never stopped. That’s the thing about my mom. She can’t take care of anything—can barely take care of herself—but goddamn. She tries so fucking hard. A ceaseless thread throughout my life is the question of how someone with so big a heart managed to create a complete fucking sociopath like Heston. Sometimes I think he just left his soul with her, doubled it up, made it too big to handle all these harsh things in life. Sometimes I blame him for it—her sickness—and I know it’s not fair.
He only deserves the blame for making it worse.
It hurts to leave her, but in a way, it’s also a relief. This is the deal. If I live at school,
Heston will leave her alone. He won’t talk to her. He won’t even look at her. He won’t poison her thoughts with his toxic tongue, driving her deeper and deeper into the darkness.
As I pull out the drive, I just remember her brave little toaster smile and tell myself it’s better this way.
I unload Jasmine and carry my bags back to the dorm, and it’s not so bad. A stark contrast to the rest of my family, I’ve never been a huge fan of manors and mansions and estates, anyway.
That being said, I did manage to upgrade rooms to a single—Hamilton Bates’s old suite—which allows me some extra amenities, like a separate living area.
“Hey, man,” Carlton says, sticking his head in the open door. “How was the doctor?”