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So, I tell her everything. Well, not quite. I stop at the details of the motorcycle club party, but Mina must read between the lines.

“You like Sunny?”

“God. Yes. I did. And I left because someone made me feel like I didn’t fit in…which, honestly, I didn’t. The closest thing they come to understanding chemistry is mixing drinks at their bar.”

Mina’s eyes light up, for a second. “Was it just like everything we see in TV shows and movies? The clubhouse?”

I huff and then smile sadly. “Yeah, Mina. It was everything and more. Like a completely different world. They have all these different rules and are much more…expressive.”

Mina rests her chin on her hand. “Expressive how?”

I feel my cheeks heat. “They don’t feel the need to find their rooms when they want to get intimate.”

Her jaw drops open like a cartoon. “For real?”

I nod.

“Wow.”

“Yup.”

“Did you at least thank Sunny and Ridge for helping you get the data you needed?” Mina asks, after she absorbs what I just said.

“On the day, yes. But I kinda ran out on Sunny, which isn’t really fair, when he helped me out like he did. And it’s not like he was the one making me feel like I didn’t belong. In fact, he was the opposite.”

Mina thinks, for a moment. “You should go replace some of the samples we lost and then, go see Sunny, just because you want to. You can’t do what you were planning to do because we don’t have the test samples anyways. And let me cover your first-year class. It’s Introduction to Wetland Ecology. My undergrad dissertation is basically one long love letter to phosphorous loading and marsh restoration. They’ll survive an hour with me.”

My heart trips at the thought.

Screw Whitaker and his funding cuts.

I’ll go do what I need to do, see Sunny on the way back home. “Okay,” I say. “I’m going. Are you sure you’re cool?”

Mina nods. “I’ve got this. Go.”

15

SUNNY

My mom walks into the kitchen like a shriveled hag. Her skin is the color and texture of leather after all the time she’s spent sleeping rough or passed out on the street. Her hair hangs in lank, greasy waves. And the T-shirt I gave her to sleep in falls off her boney frame.

And it breaks my fucking heart that nothing I do can fix it.

“You got any vodka in this joint?” she asks. Her throat is raspy, like she’s smoked too many cigarettes that I have no idea how she gets the money for.

I place my coffee cup down on the counter. I do; I hid it all in the basement in a locked cupboard before she woke up. “Mom,” I say, my voice cracking on the word. It’s an impossible level of hurt to know you’ve reached the point of no return. “I can’t keep doing this.”

She huffs. “Got enough money, don’tcha?”

I shake my head. “It’s not about the money. I’ve paid for rehab eleven times. I’ve bailed you out more. You don’t want any kind of relationship with me. I’m just a cash machine when you’re at the bottom.”

“Most sons are happy to help out their moms,” she sneers. Her teeth are yellowed, and I notice there’s another tooth missing since the last time I saw her.

“And most moms want some kind of relationship with their kids. So, we’re at an impasse. I want you to get well. That’s the kind of help I’m willing to give you. You want to get drunk or high. You want cash, not help. I can’t do this anymore, Mom.”

She slaps me hard across the face, then pats my cheek like she cares. “My little idiot. Never was smart enough to know when to shut up.”

“You need to leave,” I say, standing, the decision made.