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Dustin Broke - Autumn, Year One - Pleasantview
Dustin brushed the curtains only slightly to the side, so he could peer out the window facing his mother's trailer's front porch. He'd waited long enough that he hoped the other boy wouldn't be standing there anymore, but found himself torn between disappointment and gratitude when he saw Dirk sitting on his stoop waiting. Dirk still looked out of place here, politely dressed and quiet and nice looking against the trash heap that was the closest thing Pleasantview could consider the slums. The houses—if you could really call them that—here were worn down and looked like no one had lived in them, even though people always did. The only thing keeping Dustin's home set apart from the others was the neatly trimmed lawn and garden his mother had loved. He hadn't been able to let it fall to the wayside, despite the fact that it would have helped the pink mobile home blend in just a little bit better.
For that matter, painting the house would also have helped, but he couldn't bring himself to do that either. Dustin's father had painted the whole thing an obnoxious baby pink color for Brandi before he'd died, and between that nostalgia and the money it would cost to repaint, Dustin had decided to leave it as it was.
Still, Dustin let the ugly curtains—an off color lavender with little white flowers that didn't quite match anything else his mother had owned—fall quickly back into place.
He couldn't let Dirk see him in here. Otherwise Gods knew Dirk wouldn't leave until they spoke. But Dustin couldn't talk to Dirk—he couldn't talk to anyone.
When the doorbell had rung, Dustin had sent a prayer of thanks to the Gods that Beau wasn't home. He was out with Lucy and Alexander at the park doing whatever it was kids did at the park these days, and hadn't been home to race to the door before Dustin could stop him. Despite the fact Dustin had reprimanded him countless times, Beau couldn't get it in his head that it was dangerous to just open the front door to strangers.
Not that Dirk Dreamer was a stranger. If anything, Dirk was the closest thing Dustin had had to a friend.
Though he was sure that'd likely changed since the last time they'd spoken.
Dirk wasn't here on a personal call—that much Dustin was sure of.
Dirk was here because Lilith had asked it of him, and Lilith had asked because Angela wouldn't have.
Dustin knew he'd have to talk to Angela eventually.
He'd had some hope that she would just give up on him, stop calling, and think him terrible instead—but at the same time, he couldn't help the small part of his heart that leapt every time she texted, every call he ignored.
Despite it all, he didn't want her to give up on him. Didn't want her to think him terrible.
Even if she should.
He just... couldn't face her either.
Couldn't lie to her about everything the way his father had lied to his mother.
And more than anything, he couldn't—he couldn't—put her in danger.
And that's what would happen, if he answered her calls. If he let her back into his life.
The things he was doing now—the jobs he took, the friends he had—they were things he'd have to lie about, things that would inevitably put her in danger.
But he didn't have a choice.
What else was he supposed to do, when he had not one, not two, but three mouths to feed in his house, and no one to take care of them besides himself?
His mother was gone. Missing. He'd tried to file a report with the police, but they'd all but laughed at him—the barely eighteen year-old with a criminal record already on the books, and his wayward mother who was almost as bad in her own youth? They'd told him what they thought was the truth. That Brandi Broke had finally broken down—that she'd simply flown the coop because Dustin was too much to handle as a single parent.
And fuck, maybe she had. Maybe they were right. It wasn't as if Dustin thought their lives were easy. It wasn't as if he didn't know his mother drank a box of wine a week in order to cope with the stress and the bills and the part time jobs that didn't cover them. It wasn't as if he didn't know his own illicit activities both helped and harmed them.
You're just like your father.
Dustin never knew if that was a compliment or scorn when it came from his mother's mouth. She had always seemed to love and hate Skip in equal measure.
Maybe she'd run off. Maybe she'd given up on them. Dustin didn't know. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
Either way, he was stuck with the pieces. Beau was only barely seven—in the first grade this year—and Noah... Noah was only a little more than a newborn. He'd been only three months old when their mother had vanished. Dustin had a hard time believing that she would simply leave the baby behind. Him? maybe—but Beau and Noah? that was harder to imagine.
And then there was the check.
A mysterious check for a thousand Simoleans made out directly to him. He knew for a fact he hadn't done any job worth that much scratch, even for Gordon, but he'd cashed it anyway. There was a risk there, obviously, but if Dustin was honest, he was tired. He was exhausted. And he was hungry.
What if that check was bad news? What if it came from someone terrible?
What if, what if, what if?
What if it was child support from Noah's unknown father? Or what if it had been from his mother? What if she really had left for a good reason?
He couldn't ask these questions. Not when he had to figure out a way to feed his two younger brothers.
Even if he had to do it alone. He couldn't ask for help—not now.
Not from Dirk. Not from Angela.
He'd just need to figure it out.
Angela had so much going for her. She didn't need him dragging her down.
And she'd get over him eventually, even if he never did the same.