Dead Ends by Erin Jade Lange Page A

just
ick
. The weight of what I was really asking her fell all over me, and I wanted to sink into the floor.
    Did I really just ask my mom if she was a slut? It was the very accusation I’d defended her against the first time I ever threw a punch. I blamed Billy for planting crazy ideas in my head. This kind of thing was exactly why I didn’t want to go looking for my dad. Too messy.
    And now Mom was right across from me, barely keeping a lid on that temper I understood so well and waiting for me to say just the wrong thing.
    I wanted to drop the whole disgusting conversation, but the pressure of her staring at me was too much. Plus, I had to know. As gross as it was, I had to know if she at least knew who he was. I mean, there had to be a
reason
she hadn’t told me, and if it wasn’t that she didn’t know …
    Oh shit. Oh God. No.
    It was too sick to think about. It was worse than talking to Mom about sex—way worse. I tasted bile in my mouth.
    â€œOh my God, Mom, were you—did someone
do
something to you?”
    â€œWhat?” She kept her eyes narrowed at me, trying to figure out whether I was insulting her again. Then her eyes opened up, and all signs of anger melted off her face.
    â€œOh geez! No! I wasn’t raped, if that’s what you’re asking. Honestly, is that what you think?”
    I recoiled at the word “rape” and wished even harder that I hadn’t started this whole awful conversation.
    â€œNo, I’m sorry. Shit.”
    Mom and I were mirror images with our heads in our hands, looking anywhere but at each other.
    â€œI’m sorry I asked,” I said to the table. “It was stupid.”
    â€œDane, I need you to understand something.” Mom pressed her fingertips together in front of her mouth and forced herself to look into my eyes. “The reason I never talk to you about your … your
father
… is not to protect myself. I wasn’t rap—”
    I winced.
    â€œI wasn’t attacked,” she went on. “And I wasn’t sleeping around.”
    I sighed. I had known that, deep down, but it was good to hear Mom say it.
    â€œThe reason I don’t talk to you about him is to protect
you
.”
    I raised an eyebrow. That sounded like a line, but I wasn’t going to protest when she was so close to spilling the beans, so I kept my mouth shut.
    â€œThe truth … or the thing is … damn.” Mom whispered the last word and looked away, toward the wall of lottery tickets, toward all the things we should have had but refused to claim.When she turned back, her eyes were liquid. One tear escaped down her cheek as she said quietly, “He didn’t want you.”
    It was soft, the way she said it, but it punched me hard in the gut. I wanted to puke again but in a whole new way—like I could upchuck my whole heart.
    Mom rushed to fill the silence.
    â€œBut
I
really
did
, honey. I wanted you
so
much. It’s his loss. It’s always been his loss, because you are so great—”
    â€œIt’s okay, Mom.”
    â€œNo, it’s not. I’m sorry. But do you see now why it doesn’t matter who he is?”
    No. It matters more than ever.
    â€œYeah, I see.”
    I realized right then that I
did
want to know who he was. I didn’t want to go find him for some lame father-son reunion. I didn’t really want to find him at all. I just wanted a name. I wanted to know who was making my palms itch right then—whose face belonged at the end of my fist. But I wasn’t angry for myself. I was angry for Mom. I was pissed that she had to apologize for that bastard, that she had to shed tears for him—or for me, because of him.
    I reached forward to take Mom’s hands. It made me feel like the adult.
    â€œMom.”
    â€œYeah?” Her tough voice was back, but I could still hear a little sniffle behind it.
    â€œIf he doesn’t want me, I don’t want him,