Page 16 of Dirty Legacy

“Recently?”

“I’m sure.”

“I’ll cook.”

“Darling, it’s fine.” She parts her thick, dark curls. Despite being in her late fifties, my mother is still stunning. She’s toned and her skin is immaculate. I swear, she looks like she could be my sister. It’s simply not fair. I don’t know how a woman can sit around smoking weed and doing nothing else for twenty years and not age a day. “You know the universe always feeds me.”

“My name’s Angie, not The Universe,” I mutter at her and stretch my legs. “What do you want? I was going to make some salads⁠—“

“Chicken nuggets.”

“Excuse me? I thought you were a vegetarian.”

Mom sits up abruptly and takes a big hit. “I got a sign! From the stars!” She gestures at the ceiling. “Chicken nuggets, my love. That’s what I need.”

“I don’t have… I mean, are you serious right now?”

“Nuggets.” She falls back on the couch. “Or bust.”

God damn it.

I could scream.

My mother hasn’t eaten meat in three months—before that, she would only have fish—and now she wants chicken freaking nuggets like she’s five years old. And we both know a batch of dino-shaped freezer nugs won’t be good enough. No, she’ll want me to do them from scratch.

And the sick part is, I get to my feet and find my wallet.

“Oh, love, and if you’re going out, we need more toilet paper.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that an hour ago?!”

Her fingers twist in the air. “I didn’t get a sign. And I didn’t notice.”

Fuck me.

“I’ll be back, and you’re going to eat these stupid nuggets, do you hear me?”

“Love you, darling.”

I storm out of the apartment.

This is my life. I slave at WashCo and I run errands for my flighty, pot-smoking mother. I do it all because if I don’t, she’ll starve herself. I’ve seen it happen before, the way the darkness takes over her and she spirals, turning stick-thin and gangly, and I won’t let it happen. If that means going out twice and making stupid chicken nuggets, that’s what I’ll do. At least I don’t run into Dennis.

The city’s alive on a Saturday evening. Our apartment is a cage, but I put up with it because I love Bushwick. It’s my home, always has been, probably always will be. I’ll die pickled of weed smoke probably years before my mother does. But at least there will be motion around me, neighbors on stoops, kids on the playground, young guys and girls on bikes zipping through traffic on the way to make food deliveries. I pause at the corner, waiting for the light, and turn left to look⁠—

And frown when a car pulls out. It’s a black BMW, shiny and gorgeous, not the sort of thing I usually see around here. Parts of this neighborhood are gentrifying, but we’re in a holdout pocket still, though everyone knows it won’t last. I squint at the windshield, heart pattering.

I swear, the man behind the wheel is Connor Maguire.

The light changes. I hurry to cross, head down. That couldn’t have been him. There’s no way he’d ever be in this neighborhood, right? Connor belongs in Manhattan, in fancy Upper East Side apartments and brownstones, not crumbling Bushwick corner stores.

But when I risk a look back, I’m almost positive it’s him.

And he’s watching me.

I shiver with excitement. This is stupid. I’m hallucinating. Too much second-hand weed smoke. I haven’t seen Connor since that evening we shared six weeks ago now. At first, in the days right after, I kept thinking maybe it would happen again. I left him with three images—only three, he promised, and I believed him—and I wondered if maybe he’d come ask for more, or maybe he’d want to pose me against himself, and maybe he’d kiss me, fill me, fuck me, make me feel beautiful⁠—

Except it never happened. Days dragged, turned to weeks, and now I’m sure he’s avoiding me. I haven’t even seen him in the halls.