Making It Last (Camelot 4)

And still at least once a week, he found himself on the receiving end of somebody’s hissy fit about something. He took the blame whenever anything was late or slow or not up to spec, even when it wasn’t his fault, because he was in charge, and that made everything his fault.

Tony was used to taking blame. Used to getting angry and keeping all the evidence locked up tight where nobody could see it.

But he didn’t usually have to do it in his own kitchen at ten o’clock at night when he was exhausted.

“I’m stupid,” he said flatly.

“Of course you’re stupid. You left my daughter in Jamaica.”

Tony managed not to throw his hands up in the air. Barely. “I thought it was your idea.”

“My idea was for you both to stay. It’s no good if she’s there and you’re here. How are you going to fix anything that way?”

“Fix what?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. How should I know what? Whatever it is you did to make her cry.”

Tony scrubbed his hands over his face again. It really wouldn’t be smart to get in a fight with his mother-in-law at the end of a long day that she’d spent at his house, taking care of his kids. He owed her his gratitude, not his anger.

But goddamn, he wanted to blame her for what a shitty day he’d had. He needed to blame someone other than himself for the mental brick he tripped over every time he thought about Amber in Jamaica.

Every time he asked himself, What if she doesn’t come back?

The microwave beeped. Janet took the plate and a fork to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair.

Tony followed her. Sat in the chair she’d pulled out.

Leave it to Janet to both mother him and remind him he no longer had a mother. Coming up on a year since his own mom died of breast cancer, most people still danced around the subject. Nobody seemed to want to talk about her, and that was the part he couldn’t stand, because while she hadn’t been a perfect mother, she’d always been there, at the center of the Mazzara whirlwind.

Now that she was gone, it was like she’d never existed, except that without her, there wasn’t anything pulling his siblings toward one another. They were all moving off in different directions, and Tony didn’t know how to slow them down or pull them back.

Patrick most of all. Patrick wasn’t working. He didn’t talk to his friends. Didn’t have a girlfriend.

Patrick wouldn’t speak to him.

Tony woke up sometimes in the middle of the night to the echo of his father’s voice. You never pay attention, Anthony. It’s gonna get you into trouble someday.

Worse, he heard himself saying it to his own son. Ant was easily distracted—body always restless, head in the clouds—and Tony had to lock his jaw sometimes in order to keep from repeating the words that his father had drilled into him.

Pay more attention.

Don’t be so careless.

You’re going to get hurt.

He ducked his head and ate. He’d skipped lunch and ignored his own hunger all afternoon. When he climbed into the truck to drive home, he’d started thinking about all the shit that was going wrong, worrying over what else he might have missed, what he could do different, and his stomach had tied itself in a knot.

He ate mechanically now, chewing until he knew he could swallow, swallowing past his reluctance to bother. The food sat heavy in his gut. His heart was a rock in his chest, too much weight to keep carrying around, but when he tried to put it down, to sleep, he just thought of another hundred things he had to do to keep his kids safe and happy, fed and clothed and never wanting for anything.

After he finished the last bite and drank a glass of water, he asked, “The boys all okay?”

“Anthony got detention.”

“What did he do?”

“He mouthed off to his teacher and got out of his chair too much when he was supposed to be doing homework.”

Ant and detention were well acquainted. His pediatrician had been pushing Focalin last time Amber took him in for a physical. They’d decided to wait and see.