Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

Xavier: Hey, asshole. You forgot our Friday workout. Again.

Every muscle and bone in my body aching like a bitch, I hop out of my truck, eyes drilled to the text I just sent my best friend. Finn’s been slacking lately, ditching our workouts, to hell with his six-pack. Dude’s so hyperfocused on Dia these days, I’d be lucky to see him outside of school.

Can’t blame him, though.

Given the choice between getting some ass or busting my ass, I’d skip the gym, too. I notice my dad’s Jeep missing from the lot as I make my way to the front door, but I don’t think much of it. He did mention he was going out for a beer with Hank and the guys tonight. I probably missed him by a few.

I’m breezing inside my house the next minute, tossing my gym bag onto the tiled floor, and treading to the kitchen to fill up my water bottle.

“Hey, kid.”

The familiar voice gives me a pause, and I spin to find the last fucking person I wanted to see tonight. He’s braced against the kitchen counter, an unlit cigarette clutched between two fingers.

“Don.” I don’t bother pretending like I’m happy to see this parasite here again. “Twice in one week, huh?” I arch an eyebrow.

Last week it was the shower drain that needed unclogging. Monday it was the bathtub, but one more unexplained visit and my mom just might have to start breaking shit around the house to justify her fuck buddy coming over so much.

My life-giver ambles into the room the next minute, dressed in a knee-length silk nightgown she definitely shouldn’t be wearing in front of anyone but her husband.

She stops dead when she sees me, her skin paling as she pats down her messy, tangled hair to make it seem as though she didn’t just get banged to the moon and back. I shiver at the thought, the urge to vomit scratching at the back of my throat.

“Xavier, sweetie, y-you’re home early,” she stutters.

“It’s 8:00 p.m.,” I say blatantly.

“I thought you were hanging out with Finn tonight.” She cracks the most unnatural giggle I’ve ever heard, and my entire body—my whole fucking soul—cringes.

“Change of plans,” I spit and divert my attention to the loser in our kitchen.

“Right.” She picks up on my judgmental glare. “Funny story, I asked Don to come over to, hm…” She smacks her lips together, running low on excuses, and I think, I know, watching her struggle to keep her head above water shouldn’t feel this good. Her lies are like quicksand she can’t escape. And at the risk of sounding like a terrible son…

I want her to keep sinking.

“Your mom needed me to clean some pipes,” Don finishes for her, the cigarette in his mouth dangling off smirking lips.

I almost laugh in his face.

Clean some pipes

Clean some fucking pipes?

You cleaned her pipes, all right.

Don’s been the family plumber for as long as I can remember. Dad met the low life through Hank when I was a kid. We needed the dishwasher installed, and he’s been my dad’s go to plumber ever since. Little did he know Mom would require his services in a very different way.

It’s like clockwork. Mommy needs a plan B whenever my barely legal friend isn’t available—or is the plumber plan C? I know Neal, our neighbor, used to be a regular, but he’s been out of town for months on business. Maybe she had to improvise.

“Where’s Dad?” I stare Mom dead in the eyes, refusing to entertain their pathetic excuse for an explanation a minute longer.

I wait for her to flinch.

Just once.

Recoil at the mention of her loving husband.

The same husband who booked her a five-star cruise for their vow renewal next month. Maybe have a wake-up call right then and there. Confess everything. Wishful thinking on my part, obviously, because she doesn’t even bat an eye and says, “Out with Hank. Boys’ night.”

I want to scream in her face.