Too restless to go to bed, I grab my barbells from the corner of the room and stand by the window to do some curls, get rid of some adrenaline. Up and down, my muscles burning, my heart thumping hard.

She left.

I can still taste her.

Fuck.

I close my eyes, lower the barbells. The exercise normally calms me down, but tonight it’s not working. Nothing is working.

Everything’s broken.

Putting the weights down on the floor, I start to pace. I wanna kick and break things, smash the furniture, shatter the windows. Shoot the lightbulbs to let in the dark.

I’m just like Seb. Yeah, I’m a fucking addict, like him, craving my fix, sinking so low I can’t breathe because she was here.

And she left.

The sound of the apartment door opening registers, and heavy, unsteady footsteps lead into the apartment. The door never closes, and cursing to myself I march out of my room and predictably find it wide open, the landing outside dark and cold.

“Seb!” Shutting the door, I go looking for him, and find him in the kitchen, throwing what little is in the fridge out, onto the floor. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” he mutters, not turning around. “What’s all this shit?”

I start toward him, pissed as all hell, the events of the whole goddamn evening crashing down on me, and haul him away from the damn fridge. “Where the hell were you? I looked for you everywhere at the club.”

“Oh, so sorry, didn’t know you were my fucking nanny now.” He turns, shoves down his pants, showing me his skinny, ugly ass. “Here, change my diaper before I take a shit on the kitchen floor. Hurry.”

I look away, disgusted. “Goddammit, Seb. Pull your fucking pants up and go to bed.”

“Nah.” He pulls his pants up, and they hang loose around his hips. He’s lost too much weight, I think, my anger draining away. “Night ain’t over. Gonna party some more before I’m dead.”

A shiver racks me. “Don’t say that.”

“Or what?” He approaches me, eyes narrowed. He likes looming over me, though he’s thin like a scarecrow. “Or what, you’ll run to Mommy?”

“Fuck off.”

He shoves me again, and that does it. I lunge at him, close my hands around his neck, and in my head, I’m back in a dirty group home with the stench of old sweat and urine. Back in time, where madness was the only sane way to go.

But then something shiny flashes at the edge of my vision, and a cold edge presses into the side of my neck.

A knife.

Whoa. I lift my hands off him. “Okay now. Calm down.” Two knife-fights in the same evening? For chrissakes.

“Now you want me to calm down? Then maybe you should watch your fucking mouth. Your fucking actions.” He presses the blade deeper, and it stings as it parts my skin. “Remember I’m the one in charge, not you, you son of a bitch.”

Warm blood trickles down my neck. My heart is racing. “Seb—”

“I just need some money. Gimme your wallet.”

“You need to lay off the drugs. That’s what you fucking need to do.”

His mouth turns into a flat line. “Your wallet.”

I let out a shaky breath, angry at myself for not seeing this coming. I never do. “It’s in my back pocket.” I hiss when the knife moves. “Jesus.”

He doesn’t seem to hear me. He fumbles at my back pocket with his free hand, yanking my wallet out. He opens it one-handed, and grabs the bills, letting my wallet fall to the floor.

Total déjà vu.

“Don’t do this,” I say quietly, not to set him off. After all, the blade is still pressing into my skin, the cut burning like a line of fire. “Don’t.”

“I thought you didn’t care about money,” he mutters, taking his eyes off the cash to shoot me a sly look. “Remember what you told me the other day? ‘You got money, dude!’” he mimics my words, but in a high, girly voice. “‘You get paid well.’”

Fuck him. “Fucking drugs are killing you. Get out of the gang, Seb. Leave that life behind, go visit your mom—”

He kicks at me, and damn if he doesn’t find my bad leg again. Or maybe it’s on purpose, I think, gritting my teeth against the dark tide of pain rolling up my leg, praying it won’t turn again into that red haze.

“I told you not to talk to me about my mom. She’s not your mom, Jarett, no matter what you think.” He leans in, slides the knife down to my throat, and I swallow hard against the blade. “Never was.”

No argument there. I reach up and grab his wrist, even as the knife pushes on my windpipe. “Don’t go, don’t do this. Come on, just—”

He yanks his arm free of my hold and staggers out, pushing the knife back into his belt. By the time I gather my wits and start moving, he’s already inside the elevator, riding down.

I brace my arm on the doorframe, feeling so damn defeated. I press a hand to the cut on my neck. “How the fuck am I supposed to look after you, brother, if you never listen?” I whisper. “How am I supposed to help you? And what will I tell your mom?”

* * *

“How is she today?” I ask the receptionist, Macy. She’s taken a liking to me and lets me in at weird times, which works, as I keep weird hours.

“Oh you know, the usual.” She gives me a quick smile. Lately I’ve noticed her cheeks turn pink when she talks to me. “She had a couple of bad days. Seemed more focused today, though.”

“Thanks.” That’s good news, right? “I’ll just pop in and say hi.”

“Go ahead,” she says, smiling. “Just don’t be long. You’re way past visiting hours.”

“I know. Thanks.”

“What happened to your face?” Still giving me looks from under lowered lashes.

I touch my swollen jaw, and grimace. “An accident.”

“Ow.” She grimaces in sympathy.

“I’ll be just a minute.” Shooting her a grin, I hurry down the long corridor with doors on either side and slip into the familiar room. Closing the door behind me, I lean on it, allowing myself a second to gather myself.

Fighting with Sebastian isn’t hard. Sure, it hurts, his punches land hard, and my knee is still giving me trouble two days later, but it’s all physical, superficial. The pain will fade.

Being in the gang is hard. Keeping my damn mouth shut, my fists in check, doing my best to appear harmless and obedient, watching over my brother, it’s hard.

Visiting her, though… That’s the toughest shit. Seeing her like this hits me in the chest every fucking time, grabbing my insides and twisting.

Mom, I think, though I’ve never said it to her.

Because it isn’t true, anyway, and it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t.

She’s seated in her chair, the TV playing on mute, her gray hair coming loose from its tie at the back of her neck. She’s dozing, and I stare at her, my throat closing up.

I could go. Come back another day. Put off this conversation, that it’s the same every time. Same questions, same answers, same ache in my chest.

A floorboard creaks under my foot, and her eyes open.

Too late. Fucking shit, it’s always too fucking late.

She stares at me, and I know she doesn’t recognize me. I’m always a stranger to her, every time.

“Hi,” I say, stepping closer, trying to smile. “It’s me, your favorite man, Rett. How are you today?”

She shoots me a suspicious look. “The food here is terrible. They’re trying to poison me.”

“No, they’re not.” I sit down across from her, reach for her hand, but she draws it away. “Besides, you’ve got cake.” I nod at a small cake on a plastic tray beside her, on a coffee table. “A friend of yours brings those, right?”

She shakes her head a little, as if not understanding my words.

My chest tightens. “How are you?”

“Fine. Who are you?”

“Rett.” I swallow hard, smile wider. “Your awesome secret admirer. Don’t you remember?”

She snorts a little. “You young men, these days…”

Every time I make her laugh, I give myself bonus points. It warms up something inside me. Makes me think my visits are worth it.

Then she glances up at the TV, and her gaze goes distant again. “I don’t like this show.”

I grab the remote. “Let’s change it then. What do you want to watch?”

“Nothing.” She turns to look at the door. “Where is my son? Is he here with you?”

“He couldn’t make it today,” I lie.

I lie to her every time, and every time she asks about him.

Sebastian, her real son.

It’s normal, I tell myself sometimes, when I’m feeling sorry for myself and need a lie to believe in. Her short-term memory is gone. She probably doesn’t even remember meeting me, let alone taking me in. Having me in her house. Those memories are gone.

In her mind, there’s only Sebastian. As it should be. Right?

Damn right. That’s why I try to keep him safe. Keep him alive. For her. As for me, I’d never have made a good son anyway.

Funny how it still hurts, like a bullet lodged under my ribs, sinking deeper with each breath. Funny how I like that pain and I hope it never goes away. It carries in it all my memories of her, the ones she has forgotten, and I need them. Memories are all that’s left in the end, all you have—and the good ones are too few to let them fade.

Her hand on my forehead when I was sick one time.

Her frustration with me when she caught me smoking, time and again.

Her smile when I hugged her back the second Christmas I spent with her family. Her, Mr. Lowe and fucking Sebastian. When I felt I’d maybe found a home, at last.

If only she could remember it, too.