Page 27 of A Foster Fling
“Kissing you.”
Fuck you.
The last thing I remember before everything went black was how Idon’tremember anything about him, yet he is all I can fucking think about.
——
Red solo cups, cigarette butts, beer bottles, and empty pizza boxes from last night’s bonfire litter the counters and floors of the living room and kitchen. No one bothered to clean up after Derek made everyone leave. They were too concerned over me, even though I told them countless times I was fine after I woke up. It wasn’t the first time I’d had a panic attack, and it won’t be the last.
“Your mom’s going to kill you if you don’t get this shit cleaned up before she gets home from work,” Maggie singsongs, swinging her legs back and forth as she sits on top of the island counter.
Maggie is Derek’s little sister. I’ve known both of them for a couple of years now. I didn’t meet them until a year after we had been seeing the same counselor. Derek and I met during grief counseling after Gabe killed himself. Apparently suicidal brothers are a thing in this shit-hole town.
Wherever Derek goes, Maggie follows, making sure her only living brother never leaves her sight. Dr. Webber said this was her way of dealing with her loss. Everyone tries to give her shit for it, but they don’t get it. I do, and it fucking sucks.
“And? When isn’t she going to kill me?” I ask, picking up an empty cup and tossing it at her. She swats it away before it hits her and laughs. “I think I’ll be fine.”
Lifting myself up, I sit next to her, grabbing the closest beer bottle near me and taking a long pull from it.
“Gross,” Maggie gags.
“Delish.” I chuckle, “Where’s your brother?”
“Outside on the phone with Dad.” Her legs stop swinging as she peers outside through the living room window.
“Not a good phone call, I take it?”
She bites her bottom lip and shrugs. “They don’t get along anymore, haven’t since...”
Taking a deep breath, I wrap my arm around her shoulder and give her a squeeze. “Everything will be okay, Mags. It always is.”
Just then, Derek storms inside and throws his phone onto the couch.
“Dick,” he mumbles, joining us on the island. He doesn’t look at me, but I know his next question is directed at me, “Good?”
I sigh. “Not even close. You.”
“Nope.”
“Let’s get this fucking placed picked up before my mom gets home and we have two angry parents,” Maggie and Derek laugh, before sliding off the island and getting to work picking up trash. Before I join them, I finish off the warm beer and look at the two people who have helped me through so much shit while going through their own.
It’s fucked up to say, but moments like this center me. They keep me grounded when all I want to do is just wither away into a big bottle of Lord Calvert and a joint.
We’re just some fucked up kids, living fucked up lives, doing the best we can with what little sanity we have left.
Chapter Two
Cole
“So, how have things been lately?” Dr. Webber asks.
I shrug, picking at a frayed thread on the pillow in my lap. I’ve been here all of twenty minutes and he is just now walking in. His white collard shirt is wrinkled and untucked. The smell of his secretary seeps from his skin. I wonder if his wife knows he likes to dick down his help when he’s supposed to be counseling kids. I guess this is what we get for having shit insurance and not being able to hire a decent psychiatrist. Better yet a counselor now since he had his license revoked for prescribing teens meds they didn’t need.
“Anything new you want to talk about?” He adjusts himself as he turns in his overly worn leather chair. “How’s school?”
I shrug again. He knows schools out for summer. He knows my GPA is a 4.0, that I graduated with honors earlier than most, and that I’m leaving for college soon. The small talk and routine questions annoy me, but whatever fills his time and gets my mom off my back is fine by me. She signed me up to come here twice a week when Gabe first committed suicide. Then, after playing the part of the grieving brother who seems like he’s on the healing path, she moved it down to one day a week. Took a fuck-ton of time, because for a long time, I was mad. So, so mad. I still am, but I’m better at hiding it these days than I used to be.
Thanks to Lord Calvert, that is. Spending my nights soaking in that beautiful, bitter liquid keeps me sane most nights. If that doesn’t take the edge off, I call Derek and he spots me a valium or a joint, or whatever the fuck I need.