helpless (Lams)

Bad Press

TW: Gay slur.

...

JOHN LAURENS

TUESDAY, JUNE 28

Patty did not look happy when she slid a stack of newspapers across the coffee table over to me.

"What's this?" I asked. She just tapped the stack without saying anything, so I picked one up, reading the title in bemusement.

I snorted when I read the first paragraph, and dropped the paper. "Mayor Henry Laurens' Son Abandons Family in England, eh?" Patty pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers and heaved a heavy sigh before speaking.

"Look," she said. "It's bad enough Father won't talk to you anymore. I mean, look at this–" She waved another newspaper in my face. "You left your wife and child all alone in pursuit of a medical degree that won't get you jack shit in life besides a fancy piece of paper saying that you wasted thirteen goddamn years of your life in school. And don't even get me started on the ones talking about how you divorced her after three months."

"I didn't divorce her!" I protested. "I already told Father–once I get everything going, I'll bring them both out here, Martha and Baby. You know how people go away to find themselves. I'm finding myself, Pat."

Patty rolled her eyes. "Yeah, okay. My point is, you're single-handedly ruining dad's re-election campaign—"

"Yeah, well, dad's a dick. And it's guys like him in politics that send this country to shit. Maybe if he kept an open mind and was willing to listen and learn—maybe even think about shifting his stupid morals just a little bit—we'd get along more. You think I care if he doesn't want to talk to me? I lose brain cells just listening to him spew nonsense." I pointed at her. "You do too. Dad can eat shit." I cracked a smile. "You should tell him I said that."

"Look, look at this one!" Patty waved an article as if she had ignored everything I'd just said. She tossed it aside and grabbed another one. "And this one–" she handed me the article, just a couple days old, with a headline that made me want to punch somebody. JOHN LAURENS ARRESTED ON DUI CHARGES, it read in bold typing across the top. I snatched the article from her hand and tossed it over my shoulder.

"It's all bullshit. Who writes this shit? And who the fuck decided that was a good picture of me? Also," I said, and crossed my arms, "what's it to them if I get a little drunk? People get drunk!" I huffed, exasperated. Patty raised a thick eyebrow.

"You threw up on an officer, John—you are completely out of control!" she ranted.

"Is this the only reason why you're here? To get in my face and tell me what a shit person I am?" I snapped.

"I came to make sure you're okay, John!" She shook her head. "Am I not allowed to do that? Make sure my own brother is okay? Pull yourself together, John. Go back to England. You have a good life. A wife, a daughter, waiting for you. What's here? Huh?"

"Watch it, Patty," I cautioned, jabbing a finger at her. "You're not even eighteen, yet you think you can come up in my house and tell me what to do. Well you can't! You can't!" Patty flared her nostrils, and her cheeks flushed a vibrant scarlet.

"It's mom's house, John!" she stormed, throwing her hands up and grabbing her purse from the table. She stomped over to the front door and grabbed the knob, her knuckles turning white from her grip.

"Mom's dead, Patty," I said, my voice steely. "She has been a long time." Tears brimmed in my little sister's big blue eyes. She wiped them with the back of her wrist and slung her bag over her shoulder.