Page 21 of Backlash

In my experience, it’s never a good thing when a woman says she’s been thinking. “Yeah?”

“I’m going to drive down for Thanksgiving!” she says excitedly. There’s a pause. “Sterling? Did you hear me?”

I think I’m supposed to jump up and down, but the idea of Francie coming to Valmont opens a pit in my stomach. “Sure, whatever.”

“Unless you don’t want me to…”

Great. Now I’m hurting her feelings. I do my best to drum up some enthusiasm, but the result is a lackluster: “No, it’s cool.”

“Will your roommate be around?” she asks.

I glance over to the closet Cyrus is still rummaging around in. “Doubtful.”

“Then I can sleep on your couch. This is going to be fun. I can’t wait to see what you’ve been up to and meet your friends.”

She’s going to be pretty disappointed on both counts.

“Yeah, can’t wait.” We say goodbye. She promises to email me details later this week, and I hang up the phone. “Fuck.”

“Something wrong with your m…Francie?” Cyrus corrects himself. He pokes his head out from the closet, eyebrow raised.

“She’s coming for Thanksgiving,” I say flatly.

“And you aren’t happy about that.” He steps out and studies me. “I thought you were dreading leaving her alone.”

“I was, but that doesn’t mean I want my foster mom bunking with me for half a week.” I scope out the floor, my eyes landing on a bottle of cheap rum that’s still half-full. Jackpot. I grab it and unscrew the lid.

“She’s going to stay here?” Cyrus asks.

“Is that a problem?” My response comes out a bit more ferociously than I intended. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

I don’t know why he’d give a shit. He’s never here anyway.

“Not for me, but…” He glances around the room.

I follow his lead. My clothes are strewn around the floor, there’s a box with a half-eaten pizza next to the couch. I don’t even bother trying to count the empty bottles.

“Maybe she should stay in a hotel,” he suggests.

“This is going to come as a shock to you, but not all of us have a big vault of gold at our disposal,” I say.

If I know Francie, she’s using all her extra money to drive down here. Two one-thousand-mile trips in one year is too much of a strain to expect her to have anything left over for a luxury like a cheap motel. Why did I say yes when she asked if it was okay?

“You’re a bit of a dick,” Cyrus says.

I shrug. Who cares what he thinks? Being nice didn’t work out for me. It’s how I wound up here. Being a dick is easier, and it comes naturally. “So what?”

Cyrus rolls his eyes. “I own a hotel.”

There’s no way I’m asking him for help.

“Use my family’s suite. We’ll be out of town anyway.”

“Nope.”

“Why do you make it so hard for people to like you?” Cyrus asks. “Look, think about it. In the meantime, do you want to come to a party? It looks like you could use something to drink.”

I’m not sure if he’s mocking me or if he’s serious. I glance down at the nearly empty rum bottle. It hardly matters since he’s right. I might not be willing to accept his help when it comes to Francie, but I’ll take him up on free booze. It will save me the time of finding a party on my own, and any party Cyrus is going to is sure to have top shelf stuff.