An hour later, we were out on the town, carrying approximately a thousand nylon bags full of socks, shirts, toiletries, and groceries. My hair was trimmed into an actual cut. Buzzed at the sides, longer at the top.

I felt rich, in a screwed-up, poor boy way.

I wasn’t used to getting new shit. My socks were so holey I stopped wearing them about six months ago, and when my shirts became too faded to have a distinguished color, I dealt with the problem by wearing them inside out.

Soap and toothpaste I did use (life sucked badly enough without actively preventing myself from getting laid), but I always went for the cheap crap you could buy in bulk at the dollar store, or better yet—hit a party or two during the weekend and raid the bathroom like it was Target.

Mom didn’t spend a lot of money by any stretch of the imagination, and one hundred percent of that money came from me. Still, the new shirts and briefs made me feel like one of those nerdy chicks in movies, who got a makeover consisting of an entire new wardrobe and a personality implant while she was at it.

Who the fuck was I?

What the fuck was wrong with me?

The answer was clearly everything. Everything was wrong with me. Because I’d started imagining Tex laying her angel blue eyes on my new briefs, admiring how pristinely white they were. Yesterday, her innocent gaze made me feel like we were doing something dirty. And dirty was a realm in which I’d thrived.

Then I remembered another hookup probably wasn’t in the cards for us.

I’d told her flat-out I could only do casual, but she wasn’t a casual type of girl. She said she’d think about it, but really, it was a no-brainer. Couldn’t blame her. She deserved a whole lot more than my delinquent ass had to offer.

“How about I make dinner?” Mom looped her arm in mine when we pushed the door open, back at my house.

“Pretty sure neither of us can afford a restaurant meal after this, so go ahead,” I muttered.

East was there, lying on the couch in his boxers, texting. He welcomed us with a loud fart.

“’Sup, Sir Crabs-a-lot?”

“Easton Liam Braun!” my mother screeched, and I let out a genuine laugh for the first time today. When East heard her shriek, he jumped up from the couch so fast he nearly made a dent in the ceiling.

“Mrs. St. Claire.” He flashed his good boy smile, hurrying into his bedroom. He hopped back into the living room with one leg in his sweatpants, the other still out, and wobbled in her direction. She sucked him into a viselike grip that was supposed to be a hug, peppering his cheeks with wet, motherly kisses. I glanced at his crotch. He had a semi. He was probably sexting someone. Fucking gross. I made a note to punch him in the face until his nose curved out of the back of his head for touching my mom while he was aroused.

“You look wonderful, Easton. You’re doing a fine job here. Your momma is very proud.” She pinched both his cheeks and tried to make them wobble, but East’s baby fat was long gone.

Now would be a good time to stop touching this pervert, Mother.

The thought was so natural and funny and old-West, as opposed to the newer, miserable version, a pang of nostalgia hit me.

“Sure am trying.” He bowed his head in fake modesty.

Mom gave him one last peck on the cheek. “Well, you’re succeeding. I’m making pasta and meatballs. You boys are going to be my little helpers.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He flashed me an eager grin. And just like that, it was like when we were kids all over again.

For him, anyway.

Mom made the best meatballs and pasta in the universe, a fact I would defend with my last breath, no matter how fucked-up my relationship with her was.

I was half-French from my dad’s side, half-Italian from my mom’s. My height and size were from my mother’s family—the Bozzelli men towered to six-five on average and were built like tanks. I also got the olive skin from her. But I had Dad’s hair and pale green eyes.

The recipe definitely worked in my favor back when I was still in the business of conquering women as an Olympic sport.

“I’ll let you two catch up in the kitchen.” East clapped both our backs, already retreating back to his room. Not only was he a shithead, but he was also a traitor—leaving me with her, knowing that I avoided her at all costs.

“I’ll go buy some wine and bread. Give me a shout when dinner’s ready.”

Stuck in the kitchen with Mom with nowhere to hide, I listened to her small-town gossip. When she realized she’d been talking for twenty minutes straight without getting any type of response, she stopped, still stirring the tomato, basil, and garlic sauce in the pot.

“But enough about me. Who was that friend you spent your birthday with?”

I was sitting at the kitchen table, cutting lettuce into miniscule pieces for the salad. “Just a chick.”

“She must be special to acquire your friendship.”

I hated when she did that. Acted like she gave a shit. My mother wanted me to meet someone. Become someone else’s problem. Guess it was inconvenient for her to check in on me daily to see I hadn’t offed myself/killed someone/started a cult.

In her eyes, I wasn’t above doing all three.

“It’s just someone from work.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Yes,” I drawled. “Don’t know many people without a name.”

Even I had one. Never mind that my parents had named me after a fucking cardinal direction.

Downplaying my relationship with Grace wasn’t lying per se, but it didn’t feel right either. Whichever way I looked at it, we were tight. Definitely tighter than I was with Reign or Max or any other oxygen-wasters on campus who thought I was their buddy. The fact I wouldn’t shy away from riding Texas’ ass like a cowboy didn’t help matters.

I was considering dropping the food truck gig to avoid her altogether.

Mom bit down on her smile, childish glee radiating from her.

Half an hour later, food was ready: salad, spaghetti with meatballs, garlic bread, and red wine. The last two were Easton’s courtesy. The three of us gathered around the creaking table. Mom rushed the grace part so we could tuck in, and I was finally able to somewhat relax.

The doorbell rang.

We all glanced at each other. East knew better than to invite people over when I was around. I was notoriously misanthropic.