Page 5 of Tell Me Pucking Lies

“Your mother would’ve bragged to everyone.” The words come out quiet, careful, like she’s testing the weight of them. “I wouldnever hear the end of it about how her daughter is going to take over the world and do big things.”

My throat tightens, but I force a smile and keep my hands busy with the zipper. “Yeah. She would’ve drove you insane.”

Grandma presses her lips together, nods once. “And your dad—”

“Dad?” I laugh, but it’s sharp, bitter. “Come on.”

She waves me off, folding another pair of jeans and warns, “Don’t start. In his right mind, he’d be proud. Very proud.”

“I don’t think he’s ever been in the right mind.”

Her face hardens. She sets the jeans down, doesn’t look at me. “He’s still my son, Lexi. I don’t know where I went wrong with him, but—” She stops. Shakes her head. “Your mom is rolling around in her grave right now, laughing at me. She did a much better job than I did.”

Guilt curls in my chest. I shouldn’t have said it, and I can’t help but think that my mom failed us more than Grandma failed Dad. My older brother is worse than Dad.

She moves to the closet, pulls out the last box—my memory box, duct-taped shut, corners soft from being touched too many times. She sets it on the bed without asking what’s inside.

“I can drive you,” she says, changing the subject. “I don’t mind playing hooky.”

“Thea’s coming. You can’t miss your shift.”

“Lexi—”

“Grandma. I’ve already been an inconvenience enough. I’m fine.”

She stares at me for a long moment, and I know she’s cataloging everything I’m not saying. The peeling linoleum under our feet. The framed photos on the wall—Mom’s high school graduation, me and Axel as kids, Dad in his good days. The oxygen machine in the corner that hums even when she’snot using it. This house is survival, and she’s been surviving alone for too long.

She reaches into her apron pocket and pulls out a white envelope, folded in half. “Take this.”

“Grandma, no—”

“Take it.” She presses it into my palm, closes my fingers around it. “Emergency money. Just in case.”

I can feel how thick it is. Too thick. I know it’s half her savings, maybe more. My chest aches. “I can’t—”

“You can, and you will.” Her voice is steel now. “You’re doing something good, baby. Let me help.”

I nod because if I speak, I’ll cry, and I’m not crying today. Not on move-in day.

Thea’s car sounds like it’s dying before I even see it. The engine coughs, then roars, and the dented red Corolla careens around the corner blasting something with too much bass and not enough melody. She honks twice, leans out the window with a grin so wide it could crack her face in half.

“College girl!” she screams.

I grab my bags and jog down the steps. Grandma waves from the porch, and I wave back, swallowing the lump in my throat.

When I open the passenger door, weed smoke rolls out in a thick cloud. Thea’s in a crop top that saysBAD DECISIONSin glitter letters, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun.

She offers me the joint between her fingers. “Morning pick-me-up?”

“Not today.” I toss my bags in the back and slide in. “New leaf.”

“It’s college, babe. New leaves need fertilizer.”

I laugh, buckling in as she peels away from the curb. I take one last glance at Grandma. I wave, feeling my heart tear. I can’t believe that part of my life is done. I look forward, trying to not let the guilt eat me. I’m no longer her burden, and itfeels freeing. The bass rattles the windows. Thea turns it down halfway through the block, glancing at me with a softer smile.

“You good?”

“Yeah. I’m good.”