Four Years Later (One Week Girlfriend #4)(72)

“I want to talk to your roommate,” she says, her teeth clenched as she puts all her might into tugging the door handle again. “Stop trying to block me, Owen.”

“Where the hell are you living, Mom?” I wince. She doesn’t really like it when I call her Mom. She doesn’t want me to call her anything.

“What do you care?” She tosses over her shoulder. “I don’t have a home. Not that it matters to you or that bitch sister of yours.”

“Stop insulting Fable. I can’t stand it.”

“Good, because I can’t stand her and I can’t stand you! Always passing your judgment, acting like you’re so much better than me! You’re just the same, Owen Maguire. You and me, we’re exactly the same.”

I push away from her, staring at her in disbelief. She’s expressing everything I’ve always worried about but never put into actual words. Hearing her actually say it is …

Devastating.

“No we’re not,” I protest weakly, but she laughs.

Actually laughs.

“Oh yes, we are. It’s why I loved you best. You’re just like me, Owen. Whether you like it or not, you’re going to end up like me. Wandering through your life with no goals, no success. Every time you build yourself up, someone will kick you back down. That’s what always happens. They’ve all held me down through the years. Everyone. No one ever gave me a break. No one will ever give you one, either.”

I try to fight against her words but it’s hard. So hard. I feel like I’m ten years old again. She used to scare the hell out of me when she went on her drunken binges, cursing me and Fable and whoever happened to be the boyfriend of the month. It was always some loser who’d live with us for a little while, using her up only to spit her out.

We saw it happen time and again, to the point where Fable tried to run away more than once, the summer she was fifteen.

We never talk about that, though. We don’t talk about a lot of stuff. Those types of memories are best left forgotten.

“And if you think you can find love, you’ve got to be kidding.” When I open my mouth to say something, she laughs again. “I saw you come home with that silly girl. Hanging all over your arm and looking at you like you’re her hero. You’re nobody’s hero. Does your stupid little girlfriend know you smoke weed with your mom? That you’re nothing but a worthless drug addict? That you give me all the weed and money that I want? That you hide me from all your friends and your sister because you’re ashamed of me? You should be ashamed of yourself. You make me sick.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The words come out stiff. I don’t even sound like myself. “I don’t have a girlfriend,” I tell her, because that’s the last thing I want Mom to know. Somehow she’ll use it against me, and God, she might even … even approach Chelsea.

And no way can I have that.

“Don’t lie. I saw her.”

“She’s no one. Just a friend.” It pains me to even say that. She’s more than just a friend.

Chelsea is … everything.

“Owen?”

I turn to find Chelsea standing with the door open, her hand clutching the handle. She’s wearing jeans and a black sweater, looking like my every dream come true with her wet hair piled into a bun on top of her head, her face freshly scrubbed and her skin glowing. But her expression is one of ice-cold shock. She’s looking between my mom and me like she can’t quite figure out what’s going on.

Dread sinks my gut to my toes. She had to have heard what Mom said. And what I said. She’ll know. All of it.

And she’ll hate me for what I’ve done.

CHAPTER 19

Chelsea

“Chelsea.” He says my name but I can hardly hear it. The words this woman—his mother—said are still ringing in my ears, clanging through my mind. Harsh and ugly, growing bigger and bigger inside my head until they’re all I can hear. All I can think about.

Does your stupid little girlfriend know you smoke weed with your mom? That you’re nothing but a worthless drug addict?

And Owen’s devastating, horrible reply.

I don’t have a girlfriend.

She’s no one. Just a friend.

“Well, lookee here, there’s your not-a-girlfriend right now. And aren’t you a plain little thing?” His mom sneers at me, her thin lips curled, her face worn and faded and so full of hatred I take a step back, surprised that she’s aiming all of that anger at me. “You really think my handsome boy would want to be with you? Look at you. You’re nothing.”

“Shut the f**k up,” Owen says, his voice low. He sounds so angry. His hands are curled into fists and his jaw is tight. He looks ready to beat someone with his bare hands. “Don’t talk to her. She’s not a part of this.”

“You shut the f**k up,” his mom retorts, her face scrunched and ugly, her cheeks red as she glares from me to him and back to me again. “And she’s definitely a part of this. She’s trying to steal you away from me. You’re my baby boy, Owen. I need you. You can’t leave me. A boy always needs and loves his mama.”

God, what is she saying? She hates me. And no one has ever really hated me. I’m always well liked. I work hard at being liked. By my professors, by my employers, by what few friends I have.