Page 95 of Under Pressure

“It’s good. My apartment’s almost finished, too. Please tell your husband thank you for me. I appreciate him helping Beck with the water. I’m sorry he called you so late, though.”

She clicks her tongue. “Don’t apologize for that. That’s what family is for. Beck knows he can call whenever he needs to. Plus, between you and me, his father misses all the late-night calls he used to get when Beck was younger.”

“Right,” I agree, pretending I know what she’s talking about.

My mother didn’t even answer her phone when a nine-year-old Callie got hit while biking home from school and was taken to the hospital in an ambulance. I was the one who had to leave work barely ten minutes after clocking in for my afternoon shift and bribe one of the regulars at Lucy’s Diner to drive me to see her.

Luckily, she had only broken her leg and needed a few stitches for a gash in her forearm. I got to take her home that night, but it was three days after that when our mother finally remembered we existed and wandered home from her stint at her favourite crack house with an armful of fresh track marks. By then, Callie had begun to pretend she wasn’t hurt anymore and pushed me into letting go of my anger before I wound up sending Mom out on her ass.

Lord knows how long it had been since she’d contributed to the too-high rent or stocked the fridge. For all intents and purposes, our mobile home was mine, not hers. It was just her name on the paperwork, the same way it was on Callie’s birth certificate. A swirl of ink doesn’t make someone a parent. I don’t care how many months she carried us or how terrible our deliveries were.

Some people aren’t meant to be parents. They don’t deserve to be. And I know it wasn’t only because of the drugs. She never wanted to be a mother. Our lives were planned years before she’d gotten her first hit.

“Well, I was only coming by to drop off a few things that I borrowed the last time we watched Bodi. I can always come back another time. After I call first, of course,” she says, her tone playful, completely unbothered.

My tongue has a mind of its own and starts running without approval. “It’s fine. I don’t mind the company.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. I was debating what to have for dinner, actually. But if you already ate?—”

“Nope! Just let me text my husband and let him know he’s making his own food tonight.”

There’s a stutter in my heartbeat before it calms again. “Yeah, I should let Beck know I’m okay, too. I hung up on him when you got here.”

The buzzing in my pocket is impossible to ignore now. I bite back a smile at his worry, knowing damn well how evil it makesme to be enjoying it even a little bit. But hey, I never claimed to be completely sane, nor a healthy-minded person.

Serena laughs, and I follow suit while turning away and fishing my phone out. A sick sense of approval floods me when I start reading the messages.

King Of My Heart

Jesus Christ! Don’t hang up on me like that.

What’s wrong? Are you okay?

Do I need to call the police? Security?

Remind me to put a camera up outside my door the minute I get home.

Seriously, baby. Answer me.

I’m good. Your mom is here.

The typing bubble appears instantly.

King Of My Heart

WHAT?

I’ll text you later.

Before I can delete it, I send the message with the kissy emoji still included. And just like I expected, he reacts in perfect Beck fashion.

King Of My Heart

My favourite emoji ever. Remind my mom about G code.

The flaming red heart shouldn’t make me blush, but goddammit, it does. Inhaling a deep breath, I lock my phone and drop it on the island beside Serena’s bag. She’s on the phone, talking to Beck’s dad, I assume.