It's been a good three minutes of sobbing and hugging. I didn't tell her I was coming.

"You're so tall," I rave, kissing my sister's forehead.

"You're back?"

"Not for good; I'm just visiting. I'm guessing Mom isn't here?" I ask. Lani nods. "I just saw Mrs. Clarkson."

Lani wipes tears from her cheeks and straightens up. "Yeah, yeah. She brings me groceries every two weeks. One time I stayed at her house."

I fall into old habits as I talk to my sister for hours, washing dishes I haven't used and sweeping the floor I haven't walked on. Folding clothes I haven't worn, organizing books I haven't read or movies I haven't watched. I have never felt such compelling normalcy.

"I wanna see a picture of Frasier!" Lani says once our little house is spotless. I pull my phone from my pocket and search through to find the least fuzzy picture of us. "He's cute... he's white..."

I gently nudge her. "Yeah, he's white. You know? Marcus said that to me too. You guys are lowkey racist," I chuckle.

"No! It's just... you seemed to not like white guys."

I just laugh. I never thought of it before. I'm half white, I guess, but I always looked more toward dad's side of the family. We were always odd; I found out later that usually it's Pinay women that marry white men. Maybe that's why we're screwed up.

"I don't care about color. Have you eaten yet? I have money and we can go eat out," I offer. I already ate but spending a good $20 on a solid meal for my sister is worth it.

"I had cereal."

"C'mon, we'll go get real burgers and fries and ice cream. And then we're gonna find your boyfriend's house so I can beat him up," I propose, putting my jacket back on. Lani doesn't protest.

Of course, we're on the way to the door when it swings open.

She looks ten years older than her age. I can't tell if her stomach is from beer or the baby on the way. Probably both. I can tell she shaved the back of her head, probably because she got tired of combing it.

I thought I'd just be angry or docile, but I feel a mix of everything. I fucking missed her too.

"Quinten?"

"Mom."

*******

The three of us sit at the bar and grill, the familiar buzz around us. Less white people than in Colorado. More music. The last time I was in this place, someone tried to rob the counter. It didn't work. Everyone had a gun.

My mom scratches her head, and her neck, and her arms, and her chest—ugh I wish she would just stop. I haven't said anything since I offered to pay for everyone's meal, which she didn't refuse. I wonder if she's on drugs again.

"Where are you at again? Corona— Colona... Col—"

"Colorado. Yeah."

"All my friends ask about you," Mom says. "I'm proud of my boys, going out and getting educated. Spending thousands of dollars on school. My friend Bruce asked about you. You remember Bruce?"

I slept with Bruce when I was a sophomore. He was 33 or something. Hey, he was white.

"That's great, Mom. Lani, can you go get us some water?" I ask. I don't care if she comes back with mints. She knows that's her cue to leave. I'm going to talk to my mother out in public. She might still cause a scene, but at least she won't hit me. "Who knocked you up?"

"Wha...? Quinten, I—"

"You couldn't have waited until Dad died? A few fucking months?"

Her face doesn't change. "Honey, you're always so hostile about things. Let's just have a nice dinner and talk about college. You're doing something great with your life. That's all I want to talk about."

She is going to hear me out on this. "You're pregnant, you're still drinking. Are you on meth?"

"You really don't trust me, do you?" she snaps. A few people glance our way, so she tones it down. "I'm doing all I fucking can to support your brat sister and I made a mistake. So what?"

"A 'mistake' that's gonna last eighteen years, Mom. Geezus, at least pretend you care. When was the last time you bought groceries? The last time you made sure Lani was going to school? Can you try to care?"

"You're the one who left and I don't care?"

"Whose is it?" I snap. She doesn't answer as she scratches her brown hair. Weary gray hairs dominate what was seven years ago the most coveted mane of brunette you could ever lay eyes on.

"What can I get y'all to drink?" the waitress asks. I order lemonade.

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a/n: this story is back up my homies sorry to disappoint.