I knew that, acknowledged that, had no fucking problem with that.
The minute I arrived back home, Mom and Dad jumped on me like I was God himself. And to them, I was. I grew up believing the sun was shining directly from my asshole and that I was made of pure gold and chain-orgasms. That was what my helicopter parents drilled into my head, and that was what I eventually grew up to be. They didn’t treat my younger sisters—Payton and Keeley—any differently, and they turned out to be just as successful as I did. Keeley was studying medicine in Maryland, and Payton was a TA at Berkeley University while she worked on her dissertation in something both impressive and forgettable.
What can I say? The Cole parents had good-looking, overachieving kids.
Aside from the fact I depended on alcohol and weed to forget that Nina existed, I was pretty much perfect.
The perfect CEO.
The perfect businessman.
The perfect son.
The perfect lover.
I could probably go on, but what would be the point in that? I was also proficient with great time-management skills.
“Your sandwich, honey, with that special mustard you like from the farmers’ market.” My mom, Helen, pressed her lips to my forehead before she took a seat beside me at the kitchen table. My dad, Eli, sat across from me, a proud smirk on his lips.
We talked work, politics, and local gossip for a while, before Mom looked down and started playing with her pearl necklace over her lemon-hued cardigan.
“Sweetheart, I need to tell you something, and I don’t want you to be mad.”
Naturally, I was already irritated.
I looked up from my sandwich, chewing, as her movements grew more nervous and her throat bobbed.
“Recently…we’ve been in touch with Nina.” Mom smoothed the fabric of her cardigan nervously. I shouldn’t have been surprised that Nina had called Mom, but somehow, I was. Dad took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“You can’t turn your back on her, Dean. It’s time we talk about it,” he said.
“There’s nothing to talk about. She’s my business, not yours. What did she want?”
“She’s asked me to convince you to see her.” Mom’s heartrending eyes begged.
“She’s fucking nuts.”
“Dean, language,” my dad scolded me like I was four. Whatever. I’d like to see how his ass would have handled someone like Nina. He had Helen fucking Cole. Someone wonderful and supportive and fucking human. Judging is easy. Dealing with complicated shit, however, not so much.
“Well?” I slouched back in my chair. “Say it, Helen.” I used her first name, which always got to my mom, and she winced.
You’re a grade-A asshole, Ruckus.
“I need to give her a chance, right? She has the right to explain herself. It’s time you meet him. Think of the potential bond. C’mon, I’ve heard it all, but I’m always up for the repeat.”
“It’s not fair to put this all on your mom.” Dad placed his hand over hers. I blinked once.
“Is this fair to me?”
“You’ll have to face her at some point,” Mom argued.
“I beg to fucking differ. I’ll never see her face ever again. Try me. Really, you should.”
“We need to sort this situation out. This is not how Coles conduct themselves.” My dad started in his authoritative voice. Eli Cole almighty was the definition of a good person. Always wanting to do the right thing. “You know why she is calling you. It’s time you face what she has to say.”
“If she wants me to meet him, I gladly will, but not for money.”
“That could be arranged.” He scratched his stubble with the frame of his glasses. He had no idea what he was talking about. I wasn’t going to drag Nina to court and battle her for years over this.
I stood up and leaned across the table.
“Do you love me?” I asked both my parents.
“Of course.” Dad scoffed.
“Then trust me when I say it’s better I don’t meet him. I’m not ready to deal with this right now. Respect it. Let it go.”
Feeling like shit—I certainly acted like a little one—I climbed up the stairs to my old room, preparing to get in the shower. My phone pinged. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone, but took a peek anyway.
Rosie
I need you to pick me up. No car + dinner from hell = desperate times call for desperate measures.
Trying to collect my fucking jaw from the floor, I chuckled. Oh, it was on.
Dean
Be there in 10.
Rosie
Promise not to hit on me.
Dean
Yeah…no.
I gave her a second to process this before I fired another text.
Dean
I will come. I will see. I will conquer (and then I will come again).
Rosie
I can’t believe I’m desperate enough to put up with you. Promise to at least not to tell anyone we’re meeting.
Dean
Yeah, whatever.
As if anyone gave half a fuck. At this point, Rosie and I were two loose cannons in an otherwise smoothly operated machine. Vicious and Millie were settling down. Jaime and Melody were married with a kid. Even bad boy Trent was wearing his big boy pants and doing the whole modern family gig, sharing joint custody over his daughter, Luna, with his baby mama, Val. Everyone was setting down roots and playing grown-ups.
Everyone but us.
She was the foul-mouthed, up-to-no-good lesser sister, and I was the stoner drunk whose most serious relationship was with his drug dealer. Nobody cared if we fucked each other’s brains out to pass the time as long as we kept quiet and didn’t mess up our lines or stain our bridesmaid and best man uniform.
That was what Baby LeBlanc hadn’t realized, because she was too busy protecting the precious feelings of her beloved sister. Feelings that weren’t even there. I tucked my cell phone into my back pocket and walked over to the closet in my room to change into a clean shirt. Grabbing my keys from the nightstand, my phone dinged again.
Rosie
Do U have weed on U?
Trying—and failing—not to laugh, my fingers glided on my touch screen.
Dean
What about your lungs? Aren’t they broken or some shit?
Rosie
Bring your stash, funny guy.
Indulging her was the only way to go. Rosie wanted to test boundaries. Didn’t she know I had none? Well, that was a lesson she was going to learn soon.
The fun way.
What makes you feel alive?
Playing with a different kind of fire. Making mistakes. Owning up to them. Owning up to me. Taking what I want and calling it mine. Even if it isn’t. Even if I know it never could be.
War prisoners should be sent to be tortured in the arms and by the tongues of my parents. That was the conclusion I came to after spending eight hours with Mama and Daddy.
I was a tough girl. Dealing with a long-term, life-threatening disease gave you that extra layer of durability. Like that colorless, finishing coat of nail polish no one sees. So the fact that I was on the verge of tears caught me off guard.