Gun Shy(18)

When I come out of the bathroom, they’re still there. I bring them their dessert, plates of pie and ice cream balanced up and down my arms, Chase glaring at Shelly.

“Cassie,” she says, taking my hand and squeezing it after I’ve dropped their plates in front of each of them. “We’re having a get-together next Saturday afternoon. Just a few people. You should come.”

“Unless you’re busy,” Chase says quickly. I glance at him. He’s deeply, deeply uncomfortable with the thought of me being anywhere near him. Maybe because he fucked me up against a set of bleachers three times in one night after Leo went to jail and Shelly was at cheer camp. Or maybe it was the time I sucked his dick in a closet at a party and swallowed because Shelly thought fellatio was gross.

“Sure,” I say, squeezing Shelly’s hand back. “I’d love to.”

I look back at Chase, smiling as I lick my lips. He pretends to break up an imaginary fight between two of his daughters. Of course, I’ll be there. He doesn’t get to forget me that easily.

I watch their table from the safety of the kitchen pass as they finish dessert. Mid-morning, just as they’ve finally packed up all their children to leave, a trio of high-school girls bursts into the diner.

Chase’s little sister Jennifer is among the threesome. She works the evening shift for pocket money; not that she needs it. Her family is loaded. I read on Business Insider that Chase’s net worth is fifteen million dollars. She’d be lucky to earn fifteen dollars in tips here, but I guess she is young and beautiful and sultry in a Lana Del Rey-esque way. I watch as she squeals in delight and picks up one of the toddlers, while her two friends stand by patiently and eye-fuck her football star brother. Everybody always wants the celebrities. Not me. Every time I let Chase Thomas fuck me up against the locker room wall, on the nights Shelly worked in this very diner and I pretended I was at home, he could barely last long enough to get the condom on.





CHAPTER SIX





CASSIE





After the shift from hell finishes, Damon picks me up. We get the frozen turkey for next week and drive home in silence. He seems to have something on his mind because he’s gripping that steering wheel again like it’s somebody’s neck he wants to snap.

After I pack away the groceries, I wander into Mom’s room, a makeshift assortment of furniture and windows that used to be our den. We’d never be able to get her hospital bed up the narrow staircase, and besides, I think Damon prefers that she’s away from him.

I feed Mom through her feeding tube and then I clean the equipment and tubing in the sink. When I go back in, Damon’s already there. He’s pulled an old armchair up to the far side of her bed, the TV on low, sports playing as the background soundtrack to cover the silence and the way Mom’s chest rattles when she breathes.

He does this. He has some sixth sense that tells him when I’m about to talk to Mom, and he makes sure he’s included. I ignore him, taking up a spot on the edge of the bed and laying my ear ever-so-gently to her chest.

“It’s snowing outside,” I whisper, my eyes itching as I hear my mother’s heart beat slowly inside her rail-thin chest. Won’t you please wake up?

I lie to her as I paint bright pink polish onto her fingernails. I tell her I’m getting a new haircut. I tell her I saw Chase and Shelly at the diner. I tell her that I’m happy because even though most of the time I wish she would die, I don’t want her to die thinking about how horribly sad her daughter is.

Even though it doesn’t matter, and it’s impossible, and she’s probably not even in there anymore: I don’t want her to know what a fucking mess I turned out to be.

Damon glances at me from the other side of the bed. He’s lounging back in his chair, his feet crossed at the ankles and resting on the edge of the bed. The chatter of a football game hums around us, or maybe it’s baseball. I have no idea who’s playing what game, and I don’t care. He turns back to the screen, completely unaffected by the sight of the comatose woman between us. He never says anything to Mom. His wife.

“You shouldn’t lie to your poor mother, Cassandra,” he says absently, popping a Milk Dud into his mouth and chewing enthusiastically as one of the teams scores a goal, or a point, or whatever. I wish he wasn’t here. I wish he was never here.

“Why don’t you talk to her, then?” I ask him bitterly. “Why don’t you tell her the truth?”

He snaps his gaze to me, the game forgotten.

“And let your mother know what an epic disappointment her only child turned out to be?” he asks coldly.

“What about her husband?” I challenge. “I think disappointment is an inadequate word, don’t you?”

And then he says the words that punch me in the gut like a lead bullet. “She’d still be here if it weren’t for you, Cassandra.” His words cold, his tone measured. “If it weren’t for you and your deadbeat fucking boyfriend, she’d still be her, instead of this bag of bones you insist we hang out with.”

My throat starts to burn with sadness, with crushing guilt. He’s right. I never used to believe him when he told me it was my fault Leo ran off the road that night, but it must have been. If I hadn’t fought with Leo, he wouldn’t have stormed out. He wouldn’t have been driving when he’d been drinking all afternoon. He wouldn’t have taken the pills. We wouldn’t be here. I slide off the bed and go back to the kitchen. I really should spend more time with my mother, but there’s really only so much you can say to a person who won’t wake up.