Page 103 of My Girl

“I got you coffee,” she says.

I take the cardboard cup, and we walk through the twinkling slot machines, like a child and her mother in an arcade.

“How are you liking your new home?” she asks.

I bite my tongue, thinking over my words carefully. My mind gets stuck on that word:home.She’s letting me rent one of her properties at a discounted rate. I can’t stay at our penthouse anymore. I’m not even supposed to be in the hotel right now, but she wants to take care of me. She’s a good woman, and with the things I’ve done, I don’t deserve a mother like her.

Is that why I can’t stop thinking about Crave? Because I think I deserve a father like him?

“I love it,” I lie. “Thank you.”

“You’re still torn up about your father, aren’t you?”

I stiffen. In a way, itistrue, but not in the way she thinks. In her mind, Michael Hall is my father, and he’s dead.

“Try not to think about it,” my mother says as she rubs my arm. “Secrets like that can destroy you from the inside out. I don’t want to see you hurt anymore.”

My vision fuzzes at the edges.

Secrets. Destruction. My insides.

Cravediddestroy me from the inside out. He showed me that the blood inside of me isn’t just mine; it’s his too.

In a way, my mother destroyed me as well. They both made me. Gave me life.

I never asked to be the child of a serial killer and a saint.

“How can I stop thinking about it?” I snap at my mother through gritted teeth. “How? How do I move on when my dad is a?—”

Everything shakes around me. I try again: “When my dad is a?—”

“It’s okay,” my mother says. She pulls me into her arms, hugging me like I’m a child again. Every time I stole from her flashes through my mind—the money, the jewelry, the perfumes, the credit cards, the way she knew it was me, and how she looked the other way because she knew she couldn’t stop me. Nothing has changed; she loves me, even after all of this.

Her perfume—floral and expensive—stifles my nose, and I think about Crave. She’s been with him. He chose her, and he didn’t kill her. He kept her alive, even before he knew she had his kid.

Did he love her? Does he love her now?

Why did he keep her—us—alive?

Does it have to do with me, or just my mother?

Why does that make me jealous?

“I’m sorry,” I say, pulling away from her. “It’s been crazy lately. With everything.”

Her eyes soften. “Tell me what you need. I’m here for you.”

I study her. I don’t feel anything. No warmth. No joy. No comfort. No love. She’s my mother, the woman who raised me, but we’re so vastly different from each other.

I should be grateful that she nurtured me. I’m not. I still ended up being a fucked-up person. I don’t know if I would’ve turned out this way if I hadn’t met Crave, but I know that no matter what I do—no matter which mask I put on each day—this need for power has always been inside of me.

“I need some space,” I say.

“I understand,” she says. “Don’t?—”

Before she can say anything else, I rush to the nearest bathroom and splash water on my face. The cold water chills me. I savor it. The remnants of my makeup drip down my face, streaking me in gray. I grab a paper towel and blot my face until I’m completely clean.

I have her button nose. I have their shared natural dark hair. But I have his brown eyes.