Page 85

CHAPTER

SIXTY-TWO

CORTLAND

Mom sends her water back with a glower, reiterating her request for a lemon. The waitress scurries away, sheepish, and it reminds me of, well, me. Me, Dad, Tristan. Always bowing and buckling for our mother.

I have a toothpick between my teeth just because I know she hates it.

One I plucked from by the entrance of this fancy Italian place with a fountain in the middle of the fucking floor, just a few feet away.

We’re not in tiger country anymore. Just outside of it, where the tax bracket is higher, and Mom’s firm is down the street.

She’s in a suit jacket now, her highlighted hair cut precisely at her shoulders, makeup in place, lipstick perfectly contained on her full lips.

She glares over at me. “Get that out of your mouth.” She says the words without malice. Just another command, one she’s waiting for me to obey.

I smile at her, then nod, pulling the toothpick away, dropping it on my cloth napkin on the table.

She doesn’t like that, but she doesn’t say anything, content with opening up the menu and scanning it for the most calorie restrictive item she can find.

I don’t bother with mine.

It’s almost Halloween, which means it’s been a week since Dad took Tristan back to West Virginia. Nearly three since I last saw Remi.

Dad and Tristan are staying with Uncle Clave.

I’m still going through the motions. Football. School. Storm. Brinklin is coming up tonight, too.

And since Mom bought into my bullshit about staying here for her and dropping contact with Remi, she gave me access to the trust fund.

I’m now considerably richer than I was, and while it’s not enough to set me up for life, me and Storm own that house.

Mom looks up after the waitress sets down her lemon water and practically bows before racing away from our table, seeing the menu still in Mom’s hand. “You’re not eating?” she asks me.

I shrug. “I’m going to a party tonight. There’ll probably be food there.” Sunday night football.

Mom smiles. “A party?” Then she closes the menu. “Eat something, Cort. I can’t be the only one at the table digging in.”

“Why ever not, Mom?”

Her manicured nails tap against the polished table. “Just order something.”

“You miss ‘em?” I ask her, ignoring her comments, threading my hands behind my head, leaning back in my seat.

She fucking hates that, too, looking casual at a proper place like this.

It’s just, I kind of don’t give a fuck what Mom wants. Not anymore.

She sighs, slapping her palm on the menu. “Miss whom , Cortland?”

I smile at her annoyance. The trust fund was twofold.

I couldn’t rile her up without risking losing it.

She couldn’t hold it back without risking me leaving her.

And I think, as much as she might act like she hates us, the control she yielded over us made her feel alive.

Kept her sane. Kind of like me digging my nails into my arms. We were a nuisance, like that pain, but it kept us both alive.

Now, two of us are gone.

“Dad. Tristan.” I see her shift in her seat with my little brother’s name. “You know. Your family.”

I notice the waitress hovering out of the corner of my eye, and I shake my head, just slightly. She gets the point and walks away, leaving me and Mom alone.

Mom sighs again. “As soon as they’re willing to be reasonable, I’ll forgive your father for splitting our family apart and?—”

“Do you hear yourself?” I interrupt, dropping my arms down to the table as I lean closer to her. “Do you listen to the words that come out of your own mouth, Mom?”

She blinks at me. “I beg your pardon, Cortland?—”

“They’re not coming back.” I smile at her as her eyes widen, like she’s actually fucking surprised. “They’re not coming back, and they’re sure as hell not coming back to you.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, but before she can speak, I do.

“And you know what?” I lean even closer, running my tongue over my lip ring, drawing her eye to it. She hated the day I got that pierced. Kind of why I fucking did it. “Neither am I.”

She blinks, and the look on her face—utter confusion—is fucking priceless. She actually thought she had me so tight by the balls that I’d never leave her. Betray her. She thought by forking over my inheritance, she’d bought my loyalty.

“If you leave me, I will ensure your father never has custody of Tristan?—”

“And if you try to fight him for it, I’ll ensure that everyone in this fucking town knows what you did to him.” My nostrils flare as I think about it. His broken glasses beside his bed in the hospital. The wound on his arm.

“Go ahead, Mom. Fight for Tristan.” I stand, knocking my chair back as I do.

It topples over and everyone is staring at us.

I press my index finger to the table. “If you do, you’ll be going up against me, too.

Storm. Brinklin. You might win the legal case, but we both know what’s so much worse than that, huh, Mom?

” I flash her a smile. “Don’t let the wolves drag your name in the mud, too, you fucking bitch. ”