Stay with Me (Wait for You, #3)(5)

After all, I knew it had been my own flesh and blood that had cleared me out, my own mother—my hocked up on pills, and most likely drunk off her ass, mother who my closest friends believed was dead. In a way, that hadn’t been too far from the truth. A terrible lie, but I hadn’t talked to her in ages and the alcohol and the pills and God knows what else had over the years killed the caring and fun mother I remembered from when I was little.

But she was still my mom. Therefore, the last thing I wanted to do was involve the police, because seriously, her life was already shitty as it was, and inexplicably, after all the drama and the heartache, a whirl of pity always surfaced when I thought of her.

That woman had to experience things no mother ever should.

But it hadn’t only been my savings account. Over the course of last week, during my finals, which I somehow managed to still complete without losing my ever-loving mind, the tip of the iceberg sunk the Titanic.

I pulled my credit just because . . . well, I had this horrible feeling it was worse. And it had been.

Credits cards I’d never seen in my life had been taken out in my name and they’d been maxed out. A student loan with a major bank I hadn’t even known existed had also been taken out, and that alone cost more than four semesters at Shepherd did.

I was in debt, to the tune of over a hundred thousand dollars when it was all said and done, and that wasn’t even including the debt I racked up on my own with the small student loans I’d taken out and the car loan I now wasn’t sure I could afford.

My stomach dipped and my chest seized every time I thought about how badly I was screwed, and it took everything in me to talk myself down from losing my shit. Credit and debt made or broke you in this world. I wouldn’t be able to get a loan if I needed one. Worse yet, even if I managed to scrape together the money to finish out college, any job I applied for could pull my credit and base their decision to hire me on what it showed.

On Thursday, after my last final, I’d suffered a minor breakdown, which involved a lot of tears, even more double fudge brownies, and maybe a little bit of rocking in the corner. I would’ve stayed in that corner for at least a month, but I refused, absolutely flat-out refused, to allow my life to get sucked away from me again.

Obviously, none of my friends knew what was going on or knew anything about me. Hell, they thought my mom was dead and Teresa thought I was from around the Shepherdstown area.

All lies.

And how could I tell Teresa, or worse yet, Brandon? Oh hey, I got to go home, and you know, commit an act of homicide and strangle my mother—yeah, the one you thought was dead, because I’m also a horrible liar—to death for dicking me over. Can we hang out at your place and have drinks when I get back? That convo was way too humiliating to even think about, because then I’d have to tell them about the drugs, the alcohol, the absolute fail at life, and then the weird separation between Mom and Dad, which really was just Dad freaking disappearing, and then that convo would ultimately lead to the grief and the fire that had destroyed my entire family and almost destroyed me.

I wasn’t going there.

So I told them I was spending the summer with extended family, and hopefully, they didn’t end up reading about me in the news after I murdered someone.

No one questioned those plans, because just last year I had pretended to go home over break when in reality I had checked into a hotel in Martinsburg, had splurged on room service . . . like a loser.

A total loser.

Anyway . . .

I was putting the Three F’s on hold and I was going home. And hopefully, praying to every god out there, Mom still had some of the money that had been awarded to her, and that money had been substantial. There was no way she could’ve blown through all of her money and mine. I just needed to get her to—I don’t know—get her to fix this somehow.

That was Plan A.

Plan B consisted only of the realization that if she didn’t have a dime to her name, then at least—again hopefully—I had free housing for the summer, a summer where I’d be praying that my financial aid would go through. I was also praying that I managed to make it through the summer in a nowhere town and not murder my mother, so I could put use to the financial aid if I got it.

My hands had shaken as I clenched the steering wheel and hit the exit that led to Plymouth Meeting, a town just a few miles out of Philadelphia. I’d thought I might vomit all over myself as the thick oaks and walnut trees crowding the two-lane highway had thinned out and the hills stopped climbing. The trip hadn’t been long, a little under four hours from Shepherdstown, but it had felt like forever.

Now I was stopped at the red light across the street from a dollar store, in a town I never ever—ever—wanted to go back to, and I rested my forehead against the steering wheel.

I’d gone home first. No cars. No lights on.

Lifting my head an inch or two, I dropped it back onto the steering wheel.

I’d pulled out a house key I’d never ever—ever—wanted to use again, and had let myself in. The house had been virtually empty. A couch and an old flat screen in the living room. The small dining room had been vacant with the exception of a few unopened boxes. Barely anything in the fridge. The bedroom downstairs had a bed in it, but no sheets. Mom’s clothes had been piled on the floor and it had been a mess, scattered with papers and stuff I hadn’t wanted to take too close a look at. Upstairs, the loft bedroom that had been mine for a few years was completely changed. The bed was gone, as were the dresser and the little desk my grandmother had bought me before she passed away. There was a futon that looked a little clean, and I didn’t even want to know who was sleeping up there. The house hadn’t looked lived in. Like someone, namely my mother, had dropped off the face of the earth.