26. Hunter

Summer soars by as lazy days and late nights blend together. Greedy and I spend as much time together as physically, humanly possible.

He stays over when my mom is out for the night. Or the weekend. We've ventured back to the cabin three times so far: once with a group of friends, and twice just the two of us.

Levi and Greedy lift weights and condition together every morning. They start early, since Levi is working for a local construction company this summer and has to be on site by seven most days.

Some nights, we've only just fallen asleep when Greedy's alarm blares and he has to drag himself out of bed to meet Levi at the gym.

I don't mind the early wake-ups. Sometimes I go back to sleep. Other times I stay up and read or watch makeup tutorials on YouTube.

Lake Chapel University sent a physical course catalog with my orientation packet. I've annotated and tabbed that sucker to death already, strategizing about how to double major in prelaw and gender studies.

In a few weeks, I'm set to stay on campus overnight for orientation. Maybe it's silly, but I'm giddy over the idea of sleeping in a dorm room.

We ventured out to the quarry today. It's off the beaten path and more popular with tourists than with locals, but Greedy swears the water's warmer than the lake. He also alluded to there being way more privacy out here than anything we'll find around Lake Chapel or South Chapel. We made great use of that privacy while we were sunbathing. And swimming.

Now I'm sun-kissed and sated as I head home for a much-needed shower.

Greedy and I met up at the QuickieMart before heading to the quarry, so when he brought me back to my car late in the afternoon, he insisted on buying me a strawberry slushy.

I'm sucking up the last dredges of icy goodness as I cruise down my street.

Our house is at the end of the cul-de-sac, and the neighborhood is filled with kids, so I always keep my speed slow. I've babysat half the kids who run wild around here, so it'll be strange to head off to college and to come home for winter break or even next summer and see how everyone has grown.

I navigate over the hump of our driveway—it's become more pronounced over the past few years as the road has settled. Once all four tires are level, I ease up and glance toward the front door.

From there, I do a double take. Then a triple take. I'd do a literal spit take if I still had slushy in my mouth.

I hit the brake so hard I lurch forward, making my seat belt catch. Then I throw the car into park and quickly unbuckle.

Shooting out of the driver's seat, I fumble to open the camera app on my phone. My hands are shaking—with surprise, with rage—as I snap a picture of the offending sign.

But before I can send a text to my mother, she calls to me from the open garage.

"Oh, good. You're finally here."

The bay doors face the neighbor's house, so from here, I can't see her. I stumble closer and crane my neck, searching for her in the darker space.

"Come help me with these," she huffs.

She's deep in the garage, hauling two oversized garbage bags my way. By the time I reach her, she's dropped one, and she's actively heaving the other into a dumpster positioned off to the side of the house that I'm just now noticing.

"Mom…"

She doesn't bother looking my way as she hefts the second bag overhand.

Exhaling loudly, she plants her hands on her hips. "I'm not as young as I once was, Hunter. You could put in a little more effort next time."

I'm still at a loss for what she's doing and why she needs help in the first place.

"Mom," I start again. Pressure has accumulated behind my eyes, but I bite down on the inside of my cheek to distract myself. "Why is there a for sale sign in our front yard?"

"Oh," she says, waving a hand. "I've been meaning to talk to you about that."

The copper taste of blood fills my mouth. Dammit. I've bitten down so hard I've broken through flesh.

"You've been meaning to talk to me?" I repeat, voice wobbly. "About selling the only home I've ever known?"

"Hunter," she scolds. "Tone down the theatrics, please. You're going to give yourself premature fine lines."

Clearly unconcerned with my feelings, she marches back toward the house. I have no choice but to follow.

"I'm moving in with Gary at the end of the month," she says over her shoulder, so damn casual. "You'll have a room at his place, of course. You're welcome there during your school breaks and such."

I swipe away angry tears as I follow her up the stairs. I've never even met this man, and she's moving in with him? She expects me to move in with him, too?

In the mudroom, there are at least a dozen more trash bags waiting to be discarded.

My stomach rolls at the thought of the contents of all of them.

My mom doesn't do clutter. It seems impossible that she could find this many unnecessary items in our house. What if she's gone through my room?

One night, when I was in third grade, I helped my dad collect the trash and take it to the road. I couldn't quite lift the bag off the ground, but I tried my best, dragging it along the driveway just enough to tear a hole in the bottom. Then, when I reached my dad and he lifted it so he could heave it into the can, the bag split, and its contents rained down between us.

Rotten food, junk mail, and dozens and dozens of papers littered the cul-de-sac. The papers were all mine. Tests with perfect scores. Artwork I had been proud of. I even fished a picture of my dad and me at the annual "Donuts with Grown-ups" fundraiser out of a murky puddle.

For his part, Dad tried to cover for my mom, insisting that she must have mixed up the piles and unintentionally thrown out my things. He knew they were important to me. He understood me in ways my mother never bothered trying.

I wandered around the cul-de-sac, agreeing, as we cleaned up the mess, trying my hardest to hold back tears.

Just like I'm doing now.

But this time, the bags aren't broken. I have no idea what's hidden inside. I can't begin to fathom what possessions—what memories—she's heaving into the dumpster so casually.

"Don't just stand there, Hunter. Help me."

On autopilot, I snatch two bags from the top of the pile.

"When were you going to tell me?" I ask mechanically, my voice devoid of emotion as I follow her out of the house.

"You haven't been home much lately."

She's got me there.

We reach the dumpster and throw in the bags. There's an audible clunk when they hit the bottom. I wince as the sound echoes through the half-filled receptacle.

"Where does this Gary guy live? And will I have the pleasure of meeting him before I move in?"

My mom turns from the dumpster and assesses me, her green eyes hard. "I've had just about enough of your attitude. Gary is the real deal. He wants us to be a family. He's even hired movers for us. Just have your room packed up before you go to college next month. They'll handle the rest."

"So when I leave for college, I'll be homeless."

"Enough, Hunter. Your room at Gary's house will be as big, if not bigger, than your bedroom here."

It takes all my willpower to hold back a scoff. As if I care even one iota about the size.

I've never been a rebellious child. It's not in my nature to be disrespectful to any adult, but especially not my parents.

I can honestly say I don't know where the words come from or how I manage the sass behind them, but in this moment, something in me snaps.

"Will your divorce from Dad be finalized before you move in with Gary?"

I hear it before I see it.

It's quick and poignant, sharp and perfectly placed.

My mother doesn't even blink as she stares at me, as if she's just as dumbfounded as I am as I raise my hand to my heated cheek and rub the stinging skin where she slapped me.

"I said enough."

She did. So I guess we're done.