“Milo, it’s been twenty minutes. Tops.”
“I didn’t even want a party, Mom.” You stomp out a cigarette on the sidewalk to make it clear you meant fucking business then and still do. The sound of music blaring in the backyard reaches both of you even out front but it’s not as bad as the sound of people making what you’d guess is boring conversation around the pool. “I told you. Twenty times. Bottoms.”
“I don’t care what you do with Matthew, honey.” She smirks and hands you another cigarette, well aware that you weren’t actually done with that last one.
“I literally hate you.”
“Oh, please,” she snorts, passing you a lighter from the pocket of her jacket. “I saw you nearly throw up when your dad hugged you earlier.”
“It’s not… I don’t hate him.”
For the record, this is in fact the first time in your entire life you’ve e v e r said something remotely positive about him out loud. It makes you wish you had the fucking letter you wrote him with you but nooooo, you had to go and set the damn thing on fire when you finished it.
“I need his help,” you blurt out, shaky hands fumbling with the lighter. “Your help, too, I guess. It’s… We’re trying to find a new place or whatever? To move together. Something that’s ours. And get a dog. It’s important for me.”
“To get a dog?” She’s grinning and you know she’s messing with you but shit, it’d be nice if she had at least tried to go one freakin’ social event without being wasted. You know, given everything you’ve been through the last few months.
“Yeah, to get a dog,” you repeat, rolling your eyes and it’s a few long drags spent in silence before you speak again. “It might help me chill out a little. I’ve been sort of messed up lately, I don’t know. It’s scary and it sucks.”
It’s not like you to be so honest but it’s not like her to notice when she’s busy wondering if the guests found her stash of better wine yet.
“So you need him to find you a new apartment and me to help you make it look like Matthew didn’t emo throw up on it?” You nod. “And the boyfriend will find you a dog?” You nod again. “I’m on it, Keptin.”
Her Chekov impression is terrible and still too soon but you let it go this time because you can see the aforementioned boyfriend rushing down the front steps looking apologetic. He was, after all, supposed to talk your insane mother out of turning your graduation into an excuse to entertain people who don’t even know what your voice sounds like.
“Hey, we’re gonna go,” you say, awkwardly passing her the cigarette in your hand instead of just discarding it like the first. “Oh, and tell Dad I found that New End Original record? I could bring it over if he wants to listen to it or whatever. With me. Can you do that?”
“Can’t you, Mr. I Don’t Hate Him?”
"You're seriously the worst."