Pieces of Summer (A stand-alone novel)(53)

She says it like she’s detached… emotionless. I’ve never heard her sound like that. This is the same girl who cried over a random dead bird we found on the roof one summer. I had to bury that f*cking bird and let her say a prayer for it.

“I always liked Milton,” I say softly. “He never treated me like the James boy.”

“Until he told you that you weren’t good enough for me,” she says coldly.

“That wasn’t on him, Mika,” I say on a heavy breath. “We were living in a fantasy bubble and you know it. I don’t want to go back to that conversation. What happened to your mom?”

She tenses, and her lips thin like she’s pissed. “She died. Nothing special about her death.”

She’s twice as cold this time, as though she’s angry at me for even asking while not giving a damn about her mother’s death. It’s actually a little disconcerting.

“That’s vague,” I point out in a very non-abrasive way.

She shrugs. “I don’t want to talk about it. How about your parents? How’d they die?” she asks with the same chilly edge, as though she’s trying to verbally stab me for asking about her family.

“Mom finally overdosed. Dad isn’t actually dead. Just in prison. He finally ripped off the wrong guy. As far as I’m concerned though, he’s dead to me.”

She nods stoically, as though she’s drifted into another place. Definitely need to shift this subject. I feel like I’m losing her.

“Where all have you worked? I finally got to look you up, since I had your pen name. Saw the publishing thing started a few years ago.”

“Five years ago,” she says softly. “It’s the only job I’ve had. Mom wouldn’t let me work anymore when I lived there. She wanted control over my money so that I couldn’t save any more up.”

She sighs heavily, and I cock my eyebrow.

“What about college? Where’d you go?”

She looks up at me with pain in her eyes that I don’t understand.

“I didn’t go to college. Why are you asking so many questions about my past?”

That really makes no f*cking sense. Why wouldn’t she go? She never talked about college, but it’s because we only talked about the impossible future we dreamt up. Without that dream, I wouldn’t have made it through my early teen years.

And five years? She only got her first job five years ago? As a writer? She never showed any interest in writing anything but letters to me.

“Just trying to learn a little about what happened to you after me, Mika. Why is college a sore spot?”

She doesn’t answer. She grows increasingly irritated by the second. When she starts biting her nails, I frown. She never chews her nails. Or didn’t. She always talked about how disgusting it was.

Trying to stop thinking about who Mika was versus who Mika is isn’t an easy task. I shift the conversation again.

“How about you and Aidan? You two seem tight these days.”

Her look softens, and a small smile curves her lips. “We are tight. Aidan’s had my back for a while now. Maybe he’s had to have it too much, but I hope not.”

Cryptic. Vague. Annoying.

“I feel like I know less about you the more we speak rather than getting to know you better.”

Her smile drops again. “What happened to you after me? Before you left this place and found your own life?” she asks calmly, as though she’s proving a point.

The difference is, I’ve already told her about all my scars and it doesn’t faze me to tell her again.

“Dad f*cked up and stole from a couple of rich summer guys. One happened to be a judge. I moved in with Blake, but went to check on Mom every day while I worked at Blake’s father’s shop with him. His dad was retired and rebuilt cars as a hobby. It was decent money and Blake and I slept in the apartment above the garage. Partying, working on cars, and saving up my money became a routine in between checking on my mom. Nothing much to tell.”

Her eyes drop to the counter for a second before she finally looks up at me again. The look there is flat, devoid of anything besides coldness.

“The last time I saw my mother we fought. She got… well, she got hooked on pills. My uncle made her a mess so he could steal from her, and we couldn’t make her better.” She takes a slow breath before adding, “My mother committed suicide in a holding cell the night she almost killed me.”

The blood in my veins turns to ice, and I stare at her in shock. Yeah, Jessica was a bitch, but she was never that far gone.

“In short, my life took a turn for a while,” she goes on when I can’t even form a single sentence in response. “College wasn’t possible. Can we just stop talking about it now?”

“How’d she almost kill you?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“She knocked me off a second-floor landing during one of her fits because I wanted to move out. End of discussion. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

She stands abruptly, and I look down at the pizza that I no longer feel like eating. It never occurred to me even once that her life would be less than perfect when I wasn’t in it.

She goes to drop down on the couch, and I move to join her, warily gauging her mood. When I sit down and wrap my arm around her shoulders, she tenses but doesn’t knock my hand away.