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Fuck. I reach over to grab the remote from Mom so I can turn it down, but she pulls it just out of reach. “Turn it down,” I mouth to her, but she shakes her head and turns her attention back to the drama.
“Do I hear Teresa yelling? Are you watching Housewives?”
“Uh, no,” I mutter unconvincingly. “It’s um–”
“What the fuck, Sam? She can’t watch that shit.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh come on, it’s just a TV show. How dangerous could a TV show be for her? She enjoys it.”
“It’s not about that,” she yells. “It’s about reducing her overall stress. The more often she’s stressed, the higher her blood pressure remains. She’s already at a greater risk for a heart attack or stroke with this disease. Do you want to shorten her life even more?”
I jump to my feet and stride angrily up the stairs toward my room before responding. Mom doesn’t need to hear me fighting with Jackie. Shutting the door behind me, I shout, “Are you fucking serious? You think I abandoned my career just to send Mom to an early grave?”
She sighs heavily, clearly irritated. “Sam, this was all explained in the notebook. I went into detail about the shows that get her amped up and Housewives is one of them. It’s not about being petty and keeping her away from her favorite things. We’re trying to ensure that her lifestyle is calm and healthy to slow the progression.”
“Look, I get it,” I reply, resigned and feeling a bit foolish. “I just wanted to make her happy.”
“That’s not the job. She’s not your child. She’s your mother, and she’s dying. You’re not responsible for keeping her spirits up; it’s about keeping her alive. Marty and I have created a specific routine for her, and there’s a reason for everything. You can’t just show up one day and undo our hard work.”
That seems harsh, but I can’t come up with a counterpoint.
Jackie sighs again. “Just read the fucking notebook and follow the instructions.”
I don’t want to tell her I haven’t read more than a few paragraphs in the notebook, but clearly, she’s figured that out. She has no idea about my dyslexia, and there’s no point in sharing that information now. “Okay.”
“I have to give Xavier a bath,” she says, rushing me off the phone. “Can you handle this?”
“Yeah,” I tell her. I might’ve been gone a while, but I’m here now, and I don’t want to mess this up. “I can handle it.”
“Good.”
She hangs up immediately, and I’m left feeling like even more of a failure than when I first arrived. And it’s only been one day.
CHAPTER 4
MYLO
“Where is Kyan?” I ask my brothers, my patience quickly slipping away. Uncrossing my ankles and sitting up straight on the leather couch, I go through my notes again on my tablet while the rest of them chat quietly amongst themselves. Vanessa is also here and is snacking on a jar of pickles in the kitchen.
Zev looks at the digital clock above the TV and shrugs. “He said he would be here.”
“These meetings are important,” I remind them. “Why must I keep saying that? We skipped the last one. I will not skip another.”
“We are aware of their importance, brother,” Axil mutters grumpily, crossing his arms over his chest. “It is whywearrived on time. Save your reminders for the tardy member of this household.”
Just as I let out a bone-weary sigh, the front door swings open, and in stomps Kyan, looking as frustrated as he usually does at the end of a long workday. “Apologies for my late arrival.”
I shouldn’t needle him, but it is impossible to resist. “Another day of big money deals at the office, brother? The sending of stern one-line emails and the ordering about of assistants?”
He huffs a breath as he toes off his dress shoes, marches into the kitchen and heads straight for the snack cabinet. After grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, he places his nightly bag of kettle corn in the microwave. “I take pride in my work, and I have no assistants, but please,” he pauses, his mouth curving into an arrogant smirk, “continue with your lazy and inaccurate accounts of what you think I do.”
He is quite skilled at needling me as well, which is probably why we are always at each other’s throats. “You think I don’t take pride in my work?” I rise to my feet, tossing my tablet on the couch. “I do all that I can to improve the state of this town’s library, yet every one of my budget requests has been denied by the council.”
“Then perhaps it is time you funded the library yourself, if you truly care that much about it, and stop whining about it to those of us with bigger matters to attend to,” Kyan mutters casually as he watches the bag in the microwave inflate with popped corn. Once it’s done, he pours it into a large plastic bowl and makes his way to the recliner across from me.
I return to my spot, my anger boiling beneath the surface, but I swallow it, refusing to take the bait. “I have purchased hundreds of books and donated them to the library over the years. What I need are funds to improve the state of the building. That can only come from the powers that be. The newly elected councilman in charge of our district has proven to be a deeply unpleasant male. I can’t pay for them myself without questions being asked about the source of my wealth. That would draw attention to our family, which we don’t need.”
Kyan reclines in the chair, placing the bowl on his stomach as he lets out a dramatic yawn, for which he doesn’t even cover his mouth. His manners are atrocious.
