Bad Intentions (Bad Love 2)

I shake my head, furious that Crystal would do this to him, but not the least bit surprised. I’m also pissed that she knows where we are. She’s not the brightest crayon in the box, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who we’re staying with in River’s Edge.

I flip the postcard back over, reading her chicken scratch handwriting. She explains how she spent the first week in the infirmary—so she could withdrawal safely, no doubt. She asks him to put money on her books for cigarettes, then goes on to ask him to write a character witness letter for the judge. What she doesn’t ask is how he’s doing. Her underage high school child, whom she knows is staying with his estranged father. Un-fucking-believable. Except it’s really not, because this is how Crystal rolls. Selfish and manipulative and always, always the victim.

I hand it to Jess, and he shakes his head as he reads it. He leans forward, reaching for his lighter. With a flick of his thumb, he lights the corner of the postcard on fire and watches it burn, turning it this way and that as the flames swallow it whole. Ash litters the table, and when it finally burns out, he drops the remaining piece into the ashtray.

&n

bsp; “I’ll never tell you what to do,” I say, and Jess shoots me a look. “Okay, unless it involves school or your safety or your general wellbeing.”

“Mhm,” he mumbles.

“And I’ll never try to turn you against Mom, or even Henry for that matter. You make your own decisions. You can feel however you want to feel. I just want you to be careful. I hate seeing you hurt.”

“I’m not hurt.” He scoffs. “I learned not to count on her a long time ago.”

“It’s still hard. She’s still our mom,” I say, plopping down on the couch next to him. I kick my feet up onto the coffee table and lie back. “I’ve dealt with her shit for twenty-one years, and she still manages to let me down sometimes.”

“She’s trying to get into rehab instead of doing time.”

I shrug. “I hope she serves a few months at least, but either way, she’ll be sober.”

“Is she any better when she’s sober? She’s never been clean long enough for me to notice.”

“Not really. I think she was always fucked up. The drugs just made it worse.” I know my mom had a rough childhood. I also know she has a whole slew of mental health issues, but I don’t know which came first. Is she a product of her upbringing? Did the drugs cause her issues, or did her issues cause her to turn to drugs?

I don’t even want to think about all the shit I saw as a kid and how it might have affected me. Am I broken? Is that why I can’t trust? Is that why I always go for the wrong men? Why I gravitate toward older men in positions of power? Teachers. Coaches. Bosses. Will I ever have a normal, healthy relationship? Am I destined to repeat the cycle? One of my biggest fears is ending up like my mother—addicted to drugs and love and dysfunction. My biggest fear of all, though, is that Jess will suffer because of her. I’ve tried so hard to fill that role for him, but the truth is, I’m not his mom. I was just a kid myself.

“I won’t talk to her anymore,” Jess says.

“That’s up to you.”

“I know. And I choose not to be in contact with her.”

“Probably for the best, considering I stopped paying rent…and all the other bills. You don’t want to be around when she figures that out.”

Jess laughs and plucks a roach from the ashtray and lights it. He inhales and leans back against the couch.

“Does Henry care if you smoke weed in his house?”

“He smokes cigarettes in here,” he says, holding out the inch-long blunt in invitation. I shake my head. “That’s worse, if you ask me.”

“True.”

“Plus, he’s not home tonight.”

He’s not around much, though I can’t fault him for that since he told us as much in the beginning. I know he sleeps in the room above his shop, but I’ve wondered if maybe he’s got a lady friend he’s staying with, too. It would explain why he doesn’t seem to be in too much of a hurry to find a new place.

“Any idea where we’re going to stay once our time here is up?” Jess asks before he mutters a curse and flicks the roach back into the ashtray. He shakes his hand and then inspects his singed fingertips.

“I’ll figure it out.”

Somehow.

* * *

“ARE YOU HIGH?” CORDELL ASKS once his last client is out the door. I’m drinking a beer on the couch in the drawing room, waiting to close up shop.

“High on life.” I don’t know what he’s referring to, but I’d bet my left nut it has something to do with Lo.