Playing with Fire

Her fingernails clawed at my skin, so desperately they nearly produced blood.

She wasted the hard-earned money I sent her by booking herself a surprise flight. Then suggested we’d go on a shopping spree.

My knee-jerk reaction was to call her out on it, but I knew if I threw her out, it would bite me in the ass in the form of East giving me hell. Also, I would feel guilty.

Spending time with my mother was so low on my to-do list, you couldn’t find it unless you read that whole shit through. Still, even I recognized taking her out would be less soul-crushing than sitting here with her, one-on-one, and face the artillery of questions and attempted hugs she would no doubt throw my way.

“What do you say?” A hesitant, synthetic smile spread on her face. It looked wrong. Like a wonky picture on a bare wall. I knew what she looked like when she smiled for real.

I still remembered, even if vaguely.

I squeezed her hand in mine and felt the pressure dissipating from her body, all at once, as she dragged me in for a hug.

“Whatever.”

An hour later, we were out on the town, carrying approximately a thousand nylon bags full of socks, shirts, toiletries, and groceries. My hair was trimmed into an actual cut. Buzzed at the sides, longer at the top.

I felt rich, in a screwed-up, poor boy way.

I wasn’t used to getting new shit. My socks were so holey I stopped wearing them about six months ago, and when my shirts became too faded to have a distinguished color, I dealt with the problem by wearing them inside out.

Soap and toothpaste I did use (life sucked badly enough without actively preventing myself from getting laid), but I always went for the cheap crap you could buy in bulk at the dollar store, or better yet—hit a party or two during the weekend and raid the bathroom like it was Target.

Mom didn’t spend a lot of money by any stretch of the imagination, and one hundred percent of that money came from me. Still, the new shirts and briefs made me feel like one of those nerdy chicks in movies, who got a makeover consisting of an entire new wardrobe and a personality implant while she was at it.

Who the fuck was I?

What the fuck was wrong with me?

The answer was clearly everything. Everything was wrong with me. Because I’d started imagining Tex laying her angel blue eyes on my new briefs, admiring how pristinely white they were. Yesterday, her innocent gaze made me feel like we were doing something dirty. And dirty was a realm in which I’d thrived.

Then I remembered another hookup probably wasn’t in the cards for us.

I’d told her flat-out I could only do casual, but she wasn’t a casual type of girl. She said she’d think about it, but really, it was a no-brainer. Couldn’t blame her. She deserved a whole lot more than my delinquent ass had to offer.

“How about I make dinner?” Mom looped her arm in mine when we pushed the door open, back at my house.

“Pretty sure neither of us can afford a restaurant meal after this, so go ahead,” I muttered.

East was there, lying on the couch in his boxers, texting. He welcomed us with a loud fart.

“’Sup, Sir Crabs-a-lot?”

“Easton Liam Braun!” my mother screeched, and I let out a genuine laugh for the first time today. When East heard her shriek, he jumped up from the couch so fast he nearly made a dent in the ceiling.

“Mrs. St. Claire.” He flashed his good boy smile, hurrying into his bedroom. He hopped back into the living room with one leg in his sweatpants, the other still out, and wobbled in her direction. She sucked him into a viselike grip that was supposed to be a hug, peppering his cheeks with wet, motherly kisses. I glanced at his crotch. He had a semi. He was probably sexting someone. Fucking gross. I made a note to punch him in the face until his nose curved out of the back of his head for touching my mom while he was aroused.

“You look wonderful, Easton. You’re doing a fine job here. Your momma is very proud.” She pinched both his cheeks and tried to make them wobble, but East’s baby fat was long gone.

Now would be a good time to stop touching this pervert, Mother.

The thought was so natural and funny and old-West, as opposed to the newer, miserable version, a pang of nostalgia hit me.

“Sure am trying.” He bowed his head in fake modesty.

Mom gave him one last peck on the cheek. “Well, you’re succeeding. I’m making pasta and meatballs. You boys are going to be my little helpers.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He flashed me an eager grin. And just like that, it was like when we were kids all over again.