I smiled for the first time in what felt like weeks.

Way better than writing “hi.”

When I was in third grade, I realized two things: That the doctors thought something was wrong with me, and that my mother loved drugs more than she loved me.

Because while the doctors kept asking me questions and taking scans of my brain and giving my mother prescriptions for me to take, I never swallowed a single one of those pills. She would take me to the pharmacy, collect the pills, then sell them to a guy behind the gas station who smelled like my grandmother’s basement. Then she would use that money to buy little plastic bags from a different guy, the one I thought looked like a Ninja Turtle because he always wore a bandana around his forehead. Then those bags would open and the needle would come out and she would lie on the couch for hours and hours, scratching her arm and drooling, eyes unfocused.

When she was like that, I could do whatever I wanted, and I didn’t really mind that she was checked out, not exactly. I could watch TV and drink chocolate syrup out of the bottle and go play down the street until way after dark and she wouldn’t notice any of it and there was a cool sense of freedom.

But I didn’t like it when she would forget to buy groceries or make me lie to the doctors and say that even though I took all the pills the way I was supposed to, I still felt angry, I still couldn’t concentrate. Because it wasn’t true. I hadn’t taken those pills, and I didn’t feel angry.

It wasn’t until later that I figured out that my meds had a black market value as appetite suppressants and she could exchange them for heroin.

At eight, I just knew there was something wrong with both of us because I was supposed to have the drugs but she was one who couldn’t go a day without them.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised that she had disappeared during my stint in jail, but I was. I kept waiting for the day when she actually gave a shit about me, and she kept proving over and over that she didn’t.

It wouldn’t have mattered so much except that all my stuff was at her apartment, and the landlord had cleaned it out when she ditched on the rent. There was no question in my mind that she hadn’t bothered to pack up my clothes and the miscellaneous crap from twenty years to take with her. An old yearbook, the only one I’d ever had the money to buy, with the inscription from Heather Newcomb of “Stay Sweet, Phoenix,” which I had thumbed my finger over a thousand times, wondering what it meant. A Little League trophy for Best Pitcher. A watch my grandmother gave me. Nothing of value. Stupid stuff, but mine. All I had. Gone.

Wearing nothing but a pair of shorts I had borrowed from Tyler, I texted the girl painting in the kitchen, Robin. I shouldn’t, I knew that. She was way out of my league, I knew that, too. Girls like her didn’t look twice at guys who didn’t even own the shirt on their back. Or, in my case, the shorts on my ass. But for whatever reason—good manners would be my guess—she had given me her number and I was going to use it, because I needed a distraction. Someone to talk to about nothing.

I thought maybe she did, too. There was something . . . bruised about the way she looked. She kept her head down when talking to Jessica and held her arms across her chest a lot. Jessica, who was fucking bossy in my opinion, kept poking at her, and Robin didn’t protest, but she didn’t answer either. Not really.

There was something about the way she had sat in the living room while she thought I was asleep and hugged her knees to herself, stretching out her shirt to cover them, that made me feel just a little bit sorry for her. I’m a sucker for a sad girl, I can’t help it. It’s fucked-up, but it is what it is. Maybe because for once I feel like I actually have something to offer. Understanding, at least. There’s a difference between sad and depressed, though, and even I know not to go there with a chick who is clinical, but I knew Robin wasn’t because of the way her face changed when she started painting.

It was like her shoulders dropped and her forehead smoothed out. She was content with that brush in her hand or at least not miserable. Pretty, too. She had a tiny nose and cherry red lips and dark hair that spilled over her shoulders and made me want to bury my face in it.

So I got her number and then she left the house and I texted her and she answered me twice and then nothing. That was that.

College Girl wasn’t going to play with me, and hell, who could blame her? It had been an impulsive long shot. Disappointing, but I was used to that feeling.

Shoving the phone back in my pocket, I went into the kitchen to see if I could borrow Riley’s car. I needed to see about getting a job, as fun as that sounded. When I came into the room, conversation between Jessica and Riley came to a stop, making it pretty freakin’ obvious they were talking about me. I didn’t quite understand the new dynamics in my cousins’ house. When I had gone into jail, my aunt Dawn had still been alive, and everyone here walked on eggshells around her. Now she was dead, and Riley’s girlfriend was in the house, and she was possessive and territorial, it seemed. She had done some home improvement shit like pulling up the nasty carpet and putting cookies in the cookie jar and washing dishes.

Weird. That’s what it was. Disorienting. I think maybe she was what you call maternal, but I had such little experience with the concept I couldn’t exactly be sure. All I know is that she was a bitch to me and I wasn’t so crazy about her myself.

“What’s up?” I asked, casual. Friendly. I could kiss ass and be nice. No one had to let me stay there, and Riley and Tyler were being cool about it, so I had to watch what I said. Besides, they were the only family I had, and I didn’t want to lose them.

“You know that Riley just got custody of Easton, right?” Jessica asked, twirling her blond hair around one finger and looking nervous.

I nodded. I had been glad to hear it. The system would chew that kid up and spit him out. I knew Riley had worked hard to get custody and that his girlfriend, even though she and I rubbed each other the wrong way, clearly wanted the best for Easton and Jayden, too. I’d seen the family photos she’d hung in the hallway, like families who weren’t fucked-up did, and I personally appreciated her no smoking in the house rule.

“Well, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that a social worker could drop by at any time unannounced. And Tyler is already living here when he really shouldn’t be.”

That was all she said, clearly waiting for me to volunteer the conclusion.

So I did. No sense in beating around the bush. “So having two convicted felons in the house is maybe one too many?”

She nodded, biting her lip.

Riley looked pained. “Look, bro, you know you can stay here until you get a job and a place, but you probably can’t stay here forever, that’s all we’re saying. I can’t lose custody of Easton, not now.”

“I understand.” I did. I also understood that Easton was lucky, despite his shithole parents. He had his brothers.

Their bond was a steel cable. Mine with them was more like cooked spaghetti. We were family. They cared. They would help. But the loyalty wasn’t the same, and I was jealous of that, I admit it. I felt alone.

My mom had figured out birth control after me, unlike my aunt. My mom made a point of telling me that once was enough for her and she wasn’t taking any chances of making that mistake twice, unlike Aunt Dawn, who got drunk and forgot condoms existed.

So it was just me.

“I’m going to see about getting a job today, actually. Can I borrow your car for an hour?” I didn’t have anywhere to go. No friends I trusted enough to crash with. But I could always go to the shelter if I had to. I didn’t want to be responsible for Easton ending up in foster care. He was a cool kid. In fact, he kind of reminded me of myself at that age. And hey, I was a cool kid, right? Quiet, weird, prone to random outbursts, but whatever. I was comfortable in my own skin now, which was good, because it was about all I owned.