One Week Girlfriend part 1

we’ve gone through. “Come in with me. I need to check on Owen and then…then we can talk. Okay?”
    “Owen.” His gaze meets mine and he sighs. It’s like he’s forgotten everything and I brought him back to my reality. “Go to your brother. He needs you too. He’s more important right now.”
    “Drew…” Owen is important, he’ll always be important, but my worry for Drew matters far, far more. I’m afraid of what he might do if I’m not around.
    “Go, Fable. I’ll…I’ll call you.”
    “No, you won’t.” Anger fills me and I slam the truck door hard, disappointed at how unsatisfied that still leaves me.
    I head toward my apartment building, my shoulders hunched against the light smattering of rain that falls from the dark, angry sky. I hear Drew start up the truck, hear his voice call my name from his open window but I don’t turn around.
    I don’t answer him.
    I do as he says and go to my brother instead.
     
    * * * *
     
    I stop short when I see my mom sitting on the couch, her eyes bloodshot, her cheeks blotchy. She looks like she’s been crying. Owen’s standing behind the couch, a helpless expression on his young face and his eyes fill with relief when he sees me.
    “What are you doing here?” I ask her as I shut the door.
    She glares at me. “I live here. Where else do you think I’d be?”
    Not bothering to say anything, I go to Owen and give him a quick hug. “You all right?”
    “Yeah.” He slants a nervous glance in Mom’s direction. “Now that you’re here, do you care if I go over to Wade’s for a little bit? I’ll be back by dinner, I promise.”
    “I thought we were going to the movies.” I so need the distraction. My head is filled with Drew and all the crazy drama that is his life, and I’d prefer to watch a mindless stupid movie for a while and forget.
    Though I know that won’t really work. How can I ever forget him? Even for a little while?
    “I think Mom wants to talk to you.” He fidgets. Clearly, he wants to make his escape.
    “We’ll go to the movies some other time.” I ruffle his dark blonde hair and he ducks from under my grip, shooting me a winsome smile. “What do you think about having pizza for dinner tonight?”
    His face lights up as he heads to the door. “Really? All right.”
    I watch Owen leave, turning to Mom when the door shuts behind him. She’s watching me warily, her blonde hair—so like mine—tumbling over her eyes. Her eyeliner is heavy, her lips pinched. I have a flash in my mind of me looking exactly like this twenty years from now and the thought alone nearly takes me to my knees.
    I refuse to turn into my mother, no matter how similar of a path I’m taking to hers.
    “Why does he ask you if he can leave and he doesn’t ask me?” Mom waves a hand at the closed door. “He acts like you’re his mother.”
    “If you were home more often, then maybe he would ask you.” I take the duffel bag into my room and dump it onto my unmade bed. I left the place a mess. There’re clothes everywhere, a jumble of cheap jewelry left on my old dresser and the mirror could use a good rubdown of Windex. I use this room to sleep and really for nothing else, since I’m always running around working or doing…whatever.
    Imagining bringing Drew to my apartment, into my room, he’d probably be disgusted. He’s sort of a neat freak and everyone that lives here is sort of not.
    Like I’m ever going to bring him here anyway. There’s no way we could work. I need to face facts. He’s too damaged, too stubborn to give me a chance.
    “I’m home all the time,” my mom has the nerve to say when I come back into the living room. She’s cracked open a beer and she sips from it, blowing out a harsh breath. “I’ve had a tough weekend. I don’t need you giving me crap to make me feel guilty.”
    I’d love to hear her definition of a tough weekend. Did they run out of beer or smokes? Maybe her boyfriend flirted with another woman. If anyone has had a tough weekend—hell, a tough fucking week—it would be Drew Callahan.
    Oh yeah, and me.
    “It’s only Saturday,” I point out. “Don’t you have a bar to hang out at or something?”
    She snorts. “Since when did you become such a smartass?”
    I don’t bother answering her. Instead, I head to the tiny kitchen and crack open the fridge, peering inside. It’s depressing as hell in there. Leftover Chinese takeout from however long ago and mostly empty bottles of catsup,