Tara Fuller: Inbetween

Mom’s fingers clamp onto my shoulder, startling me. The dog leaps toward her, and I kick dirt at it and yell for it to go.

Amazingly it does. I pull out of Mom’s grasp, ignoring the pleading in her eyes. She latches on again. “You can’t go. Please, don’t do this.”

Where does she get off, acting this way? “What do you care whether I’m here or not?”

“You have to stay! If you don’t, it’s going to get worse.”

It sounds like she cares, but I’m not easily fooled. I turn away. “She doesn’t know who I am. You never told her about me.”

“Of course not. I haven’t talked to her since I left.”

I snap around and confront her. “Why are we even here?”

“There’s no other place to go.”

“Bullsh—”

“Don’t cuss.” She glances back and sees Grandma inching her way toward us. “We have to be smart about this. You promised me you’d behave.”

The muscle in my cheek twitches. “People make promises all the time they don’t intend to keep.” Just like she’d promised to quit smoking and drinking and hooking up with men. Promises run cheap in our dysfunctional family.

I will not be like her. I will make something out of my life, even if it kills me.

Panic flushes her face. “Please, Dylan.”

She’s desperate. I can taste it in the air. I should relent, but an unquenchable need to hurt her like she constantly hurts me threatens to hijack my control.

The crunch of gravel stops me from saying something that would push her over the edge. Grandma’s within hearing range, a look of suspicion on her face. “What’s going on, Addison?”

“Addy,” Mom says on a sigh as she turns to face Grandma. “My name is Addy . And nothing is going on. This is my son. Dylan.”

“Your son?” The news is definitely a shocker for her. “But he’s… How old is he?”

“Seventeen,” I say.

Grandma appears dazed and more than confused.

“Yeah,” Mom blurts out. “Do the math. Sixteen and pregnant. Daddy would’ve freaked— I freaked—so I left.”

“What? Your father—” Mom throws her head back and sways side-to-side like a nervous hen that’s been pegged for Sunday dinner. “You know I’m right,” she hollers at the sky.

Shadows flit into Grandma’s eyes. “He would’ve been angry, yes, but that was no reason to leave like you did.”

Mom’s chin trembles, but she regains control. She looks toward the house and into the woods beyond, like she’s searching for something. “Well, we can’t change the past.”

“No. We can’t.” Grandma glances at me. I can tell she wants to move closer for an inspection, but manners—and most likely shock—keep her back. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dylan,” she says.

Her gaze lances through me. I get this feeling like I should apologize, but I can’t think what I’ve done wrong, exactly. I don’t especially like the feeling. So instead, I thrust out my hand and throw her a smile laced with sarcasm. “Hey there, Granny .”

There’s a sudden void of sound, like the whole world stops for a millisecond, shocked by my rudeness. It whispers on the wind, “She’s your grandmother. Have a little respect.”

She blinks, and then her mouth cracks open into a wide smile, followed by a sharp laugh. She grabs my hand and squeezes.

“You’re your mother’s child, all right.”

I stiffen. She has no idea how deeply she’s insulted me. Or maybe she does, because the sunlight suddenly splinters in her eyes, and her fingers squeeze mine.

Mom’s fixated on the car, and she’s as jittery as a crack addict. “Can we unpack, now?” she whines, and lights up a cigarette, sucking so hard the tip burns quickly into squiggly ash.

Grandma lets go of my hand to cup my face. There’s an analytical slant to her stare—a “who’s your daddy” look. I can see her mentally click through the slim White Pages of her acquaintances, searching for the culprit. A shadow of suspicion flickers before she gives my cheek a gentle pat. “You’re a handsome boy, Dylan. I bet your girlfriend is still crying over you leaving.”

Girls have been giggling and sighing over me since I hit the sixth grade. I won’t lie. I like girls, and I like the attention they pour on me. A lot. But as soon as I get attached to one, we leave. Over the years, I’ve learned to adapt. To play the field. Life is less complicated that way.

I shrug and look at Mom. “I’m not strictly a one-woman guy, right, Mom?”

She blows out a thick stream of smoke before pitching the spent butt on the ground and grinding it out. “No, you’re not.”

Grandma’s eyes twinkle. “A Romeo, huh?” When I start to pull away, her fingers intertwine with mine, and she leads me back up the dirt road toward the house. “Trust me. A time will come when one special person is all you’ll want.”

Mom snorts and lights another cigarette.

God, I hope not. The last thing I want is to become like Mom; chasing the one and always slinking away with the taste of burnt ash in my mouth.

To lose yourself in Dylan and Kera’s romance, pick up The Marked Son online or in a bookstore near you!