Other Broken Things (6 page)

And surprise, surprise, I got out of rehab and no one really gives a shit about me anyway. Except my Christmas Nazi mom. And Brent, who wants to rehash a bunch of shit. My friends are people who got loaded with me, and when I came back with a court card and a piss test requirement, I've become less fun to them. They're around still, and they wouldn't care if I hung out with them, as long as I didn't kill their buzz.

But Brent's trying and I feel kind of bad about him now. I touch his cheek and he leans forward to kiss me but I stop him. “You're not a complete prick. I just can't get back into it with you, you know?”

He slides his hand around the nape of my neck and pulls me forward. “Why not? We've got
history
. I don't care if you're sober or drunk. I'll take you as you are.”

I pull back. I so don't want to get into our history. “Yeah. I know. I get it. But the truth is, I can't be with someone like that. Fucking AA. I'm not supposed to be with anyone at all until I'm a year sober. But even though I don't give a shit about that, I still can't be with someone who parties. It's too hard, you know?”

I hate the itchy feeling on my skin. I hate the uncomfortability of truth. But I owe it to Brent, especially because I refuse to give him anything else. The least I can do is offer him part of an explanation.

“I could've loved you,” he whispers, and now I do roll my eyes and push him away.

“Don't be stupid. Save that shit for someone who's going to fall for it. Maybe Lizzie. She's always been sort of into you.”

He shrugs. “Not my type. I like girls with curly hair and big mouths.”

He wags his eyebrows and I swat him, then pull the car door open. “Get over it, B. Virgins are people too. And maybe she's saving herself for you.” I slam the door shut and trudge back to my house, wondering if I should call Joe to apologize.

Before I figure it out, my phone pings in my purse. I pull it out when I get to my front porch. Text from Joe's number.

You should head over to the pancake breakfast after you meet with Kathy on Sunday.

I add his name to my contacts and text back.

You going?

The front door opens and Mom looks at me anxiously. “What are you doing out here?”

I hold up my phone. “Making plans with one of my AA buddies.”

She ushers me in and fusses over hanging my coat as I read Joe's return text.

It's not a date, Natalie. But I'll hook you up to start working the breakfast if you're interested in fulfilling your community service.

I smirk and can't help typing back,
I knew we weren't done with our hooking-up conversation.

Mom is watching me, but I don't even care. I stare at my phone and wait for his response. It comes thirty seconds later.

Brat.

Brent texts me
again on Saturday morning, because he's either stupid or tenacious. And I'm actually starting to wonder if I'm going to have to have a real conversation with him to clear some stuff up. Which would suck because I've worked too damn hard to forget about that mess.

I'm almost never up until afternoon on the weekends, but since I've been sober, I can't seem to sleep in anymore. So I get up, send Brent a
leave me the fuck alone
text, then shower and smoke two cigarettes out my window before going downstairs to see what Mom's doing.

Dad is at the gym, sparring. I used to go with him. It was our bonding thing. It's how I got into boxing in the first place. At first he was impressed and thought it was cute to have an eleven-year-old who was such a good fighter. But then I got really good and it became a problem. Because young ladies from rich families don't box. That's for hood rats. I haven't touched my gloves since before I got my DUI, before I started drinking every day. It was a stupid idea in the first place. Not something I could ever really have.

When I got out of rehab my parents tried to do this family-meal-togetherness thing because they thought I'd fallen in with the wrong element due to lack of family bonding. But that lasted two days before Dad said he had too much work and I was fine anyway, just needed to realize my potential and stop spending time with wastes of space. Wonder what he would think of Joe and the
KILL
knuckles.

Mom blinks in surprise when she sees me now, her eyes red and her face splotchy.

“You've been crying?” I ask.

She takes a napkin and dabs off her face. “I'm fine. Just listening to some of those ‘Stories of the Season.' ”

I roll my eyes. Seriously. The radio station does these sad-sack stories twice a day where people call in and give all the details of their lame lives and then the radio station pays their heating bill or some shit. It's the stupidest fucking thing ever. Some woman talking about how she has incurable cancer and the radio deejay being all, “Well, you're in luck, because we're going to take care of your heating bill with the help of our very generous sponsor, Commonwealth Citizen.” It's the worst kind of opportunistic douchery. And it ends with the cancer woman crying grateful tears as if she's super happy that she'll now be able to die in the comfort of a fully heated home.

“What was this one about?” I ask, grabbing a coffee mug from the cabinet and pouring myself a cup, adding a splash of peppermint creamer at the last second.

Mom dabs her face again. “It was about a woman whose daughter is addicted to meth. The daughter's been living on the streets and the mother wants to get her home for the holidays.”

I raise an eyebrow. “The radio station is paying for rehab? Huh. That's pretty progressive.”

Mom waves her hand. “No. Of course not. Nothing like that. But they're buying her all new clothes and paying for the mother's grocery bill so she can make a real family dinner for Christmas.”

I snort. “So wait, the meth addict is getting a new wardrobe to show off to her pals on the street, and her mom is getting a ham and some green bean casserole? That radio station is so classy with the gift giving.”

Mom's mouth pinches. “Don't be sarcastic. I thought you'd be more understanding of someone suffering from addiction.”

I shake my head. “People who do meth are idiots and deserve whatever they get. Everyone has seen those pictures of the holes in the brain, and the teeth . . . Jesus.”

I did meth once. It was fucking awesome. But disgusting junkie teeth are so not worth it. Plus the people you have to deal with to even score any are complete paranoid freaks.

“What are you doing today?” Mom asks. I knew meth talk would bring about a subject change. Shit was getting too real and Mom is a gold-star deflector. She's done it for years. It's why she's still with my dad.

“I thought I'd buy a pint and fill the ice cube trays with Jell-O shots.”

Mom's eyes go wide.

“I'm just kidding.” Though, actually, a smoothie with Bacardi in it would be outstanding about now.

“Natalie.” It'd be better if it was a reprimand, but it's a plea. And I feel like an asshole.

“I don't know what I'm doing. I got homework to catch up on. I gotta find some friends who aren't loadies. I gotta buy another carton of cigarettes. You know? The usual.”

This honesty is a new thing for me. I've never been honest with my mom—I'm still not about a lot of things and it's not like she's all that honest with me—but I feel like I owe her something because I know she thinks she's failed at parenting. I mean, she doesn't work, she only has one kid, she has a husband who barely even eats here, and she spends most of her time doing fund-raising for the art museum. It's all very 1950s mom, and a daughter who goes to rehab really puts a kink in that image.

“More cigarettes? You're seventeen. You don't want to start this habit. Studies have shown—”

I press my hands over my ears and start humming really loud. “I'm not listening to this,” I holler.

Her mouth pinches and I release my hands.

“Mom. You're going to need to give me a pass on the cigarettes right now. I get how you feel, but I'm doing the best I can here.”

Her face is sadness and love and concern and I want to slam my eyes shut and start this conversation over. “You used to have friends who weren't loadies,” she says. “Camille.”

“I used to have a lot of things,” I snap back because I don't want to talk about Camille and how I used to be, and the best way to do that is to push Mom.

She draws in a deep breath. “Are you . . . ?” But she doesn't finish. Of course she doesn't finish. It's there, between us, but we won't talk about it.

“Would you like me to take you to a meeting?” she says instead.

I take a gulp of coffee—Jesus, that's good—and shake my head. “I don't think I'm going to one today. I'm already meeting my sponsor tomorrow morning and then I'm going to work this pancake breakfast so I can knock out that community service.”

Mom's eyes light up. “Oh? You found community service to do.”

“Yeah. Maybe. I was going to do some gift wrapping for children's literacy or whatever, but one of the guys at AA told me the judge won't count that.”

“I don't see why not. It's work for a good cause.” Her fingers fiddle with the napkin, folding it into some sort of origami boat. Mom really needs to get off Pinterest and get a job.

“Apparently the judge doesn't realize that getting a million wrapping paper cuts and being forced to deal with crabby holiday assholes for no money is legit community service. They actually want me to work with the less fortunate.”

Mom's mouth droops. “Where's the pancake breakfast?”

“At SFC. It's not just a meeting place for drunks. Community stuff happens there too. Which basically means I'm going to be serving pancakes to a bunch of alkies and homeless guys, but whatever.”

This is the longest conversation I've had with Mom in a while. It's almost like the whole thing is too much for her to process.

“Well, do they need more help? Because maybe I could . . .”

I hold up a hand and stop her. “Mom. Sobriety, community service, AA meetings, these are not mother-daughter bonding activities. This isn't book club. I know you're a total joiner, but trust me when I tell you this is one party you don't want to be invited to.”

She's got the kicked-puppy face. I've hurt her feelings now. I feel like an ass. But honestly. Who does this? It's like my mom is so bored she even wants to co-opt the shitty things in my life.

I get up from the table before I feel even worse, and head upstairs. I one hundred percent do not want to feel bad about this. And usually when I don't want to feel something, I have a really solid solution. Only now I don't. Because Mom got rid of all the booze in the house except for Dad's super-expensive scotch, which he keeps
locked
in the bottom of the credenza.

I smoke a cigarette and watch as Mom trudges to each of the neighbors' houses to deliver tins full of cookies. Her shoulders are slumped and her red-and-green striped hat is lilting to the side. Shit.

I duck into my closet to grab a sweater and go help her, bracing myself for the twenty minutes of chitchat she'll partake in at every fricking house. As I'm pulling down a thick wool Lily McNeal striped cardigan, my boxing gloves fall from the side of the shelf where I'd tucked them forever ago. My chest freezes. I move my fingers over the laces and smell the leather. Tears push against the backs of my eyelids but I blink a bunch of times to stop them. I won't. I can't.

My right hand shakes as I slide it into the glove, just for a second. My knuckles curl on instinct, my whole arm tightening to swing. It's fast and hard and right into the back wall. Right through the drywall. I slump on the floor and let out a sob before tearing the glove off my hand. No. No. No no no. This isn't mine anymore.

I bolt from the closet, snag my phone, and text Brent.
I need fortification. Vodka and cranberry. Do NOT skimp on the vodka.

He's at my house twenty minutes later. I chug down half the booze-filled water bottle before we say more than two sentences to each other. Then I give him a handy because I sort of owe him for doing me a solid.

“If you give me a few minutes, we could have sex?” He's leaned back on my bed, catching his breath while I mop up his spunk with my nightshirt. At least he's nice enough to ask.

“Nah. I don't have any condoms,” I say, and drink the rest of the vodka-cran. Jesus, that's good.

“Well . . . I could pull out. Oh. Sorry, shit. Maybe we could do other stuff or . . .” He looks like he is going to start in on the talking thing again, so I stroke him a few more times until he gets that sex-stupid look.

I'm
not
thinking about this. Not thinking about my past with Brent, and luckily, I've had enough vodka-cran to shut down my brain. “Mom's going to be done with cookie deliveries any minute. You better go.”