Carter Ortese is Trouble - completed (The Boys #1)

Chapter 5: Carter

When my mom gets home at seven thirty, I'm sitting at our small dining table in the breakfast nook of our apartment. I glance up at her as she enters the front door, looking frazzled. It's only Wednesday and already the wear of the week weighs on her. A purplish hue has taken up permanent residence under her eyes.

"Long day?" I ask, getting up and crossing the room to meet her. She hands me a small bag of groceries. I peek in the top. Pasta, cans of tomato sauce, lentils, rice, frozen peas, and a huge bag of frozen chicken.

"Always," she says, leaning in and kissing me on the forehead. I grimace as she places both hands on my cheeks. My mom's only seventeen years older than me, which is one of the many reasons people assume the worst. Teen mom means more teen troubles. "You know you'll always be my shining star during these dark days."

I snort. "That bad, huh?" I take the groceries to the kitchen and start unpacking. The small galley space has never allowed for both of us to be in there at once. I grab a pot from a cabinet and put water on the stove to boil.

"I swear, my boss is trying to kill me."

"At least you have job. You know almost ten percent of Americans don't?"

"Do you study with that brain of yours, or just learn things for trivia night?" She sits down at the table and looks over my homework. "You know, Spanish would have been more practical."

"Since when do we do anything that's practical?" I slide the last box of pasta in place and close the cupboard door, leaning against the counter and crossing my arms.

"Je pense que tu en penses trop!" She sticks her tongue out. "Do I still have it?"

"You still have it. What happened with the boss today?"

She sighs and slumps forward, propping her head up with her elbow. A lock of light amber hair falls in front of her face, coming out of the bun she desperately tries to keep it in. Her make up is smudged under her eyes, and there's wrinkles forming from lack of sleep. "Made me work overtime, again. Doesn't seem to matter that I've finished his schedule to perfection for two weeks out, he always finds something else for me to do."

"What was it today?"

"Endless filing."

This is one of the many reasons why I've never aspired to go to college. The prick my mom works for has been there, done that, and he works her to the bone. She's an intelligent, wonderful woman who has given up most of her life to make sure I can succeed. And what does she get for it? No appreciation.

Once I can work full time and make more money, I'll help her go back to school. Once she's at a better job, I can have my turn. Besides, as soon as I reach my eighteenth birthday, I can tend bar. I'll make more tips than she does working overtime at her dead end job with how many regulars we have at the restaurant. My mom's dedicated ten years of her life to her cubicle, and that's ten years too many.

"So," she breathes out, lifting herself upright. "How was your day?"

I grab two glasses from a cabinet and fill them with tap water. I sit across from her and put one in front of her. "How much have you had to drink today?"

"Not enough," she says, grasping at the cup. She downs half of it in under thirty seconds. "You're too good to me."

"My day was fine," I say after a beat, wondering how to explain that every single adult in my life, except for my guidance counselor, believes I'm going nowhere fast. And my guidance counselor thinks I'm not challenging myself enough. "Emma Williams asked me out." That seems like a safe place to start.

My mom almost drops her glass. She sputters on some water and gazes at me with light blue eyes. The only thing I received from both of my parents was their eyes. Mine are a light blue green mixture, but otherwise, I look just like my dad. A spitting image, most people say, especially my grandparents. They'll never let me forget it—no one will.