If Only (GxG)

Chapter 13 Fine

A/N
🎶 Little Lies by Fleetwood Mac🎶

『 °*• ❀ •*°』
Alison's POV

The evening sky is already tinged with inky purples and blues by the time I arrive back at the apartment.

My mind still buzzes with the day's events—thoughts of Blake are never far, and even now, I replay our last moments at school. Despite the warmth those memories bring, a heaviness settles over me the second I open the front door.

Something is off.

I find George in the living room, pacing. He's not usually one to show nerves openly, but now his restless steps speak volumes. My stomach twists. "Hey, what's wrong?" I ask, slipping off my jacket and placing my keys on the table.

He exhales, fingers pressed against the bridge of his nose. "Mum showed up about twenty minutes ago," he mutters. "She said she was going outside to get some air, but I think she's just looking for an excuse to drink more. I don't know—she was upset."

My heart rate picks up. Mum rarely visits, and the times she does are never pleasant. It's always the same: a half-sober attempt at reconnecting that collapses into a drunken tirade. I tuck my hair behind my ears and brace myself. "Okay. Where is she now?"

George hesitates, but before he can answer, the door bangs open, and Mum lurches in. Her red hair is disheveled, and she reeks of alcohol so strong it makes my nose wrinkle. My chest clenches with a mixture of anger and residual guilt—this is the woman who gave birth to me, and yet she feels more like a stranger every time I see her.

"Well, look who's home," she slurs, leaning heavily against the wall. Her bloodshot eyes roam over me, then flick to George, brimming with accusation. "My lovely children who can't be bothered to check in on their dear mother. Too busy living in this fancy place, I see?"

My anger sparks. This apartment is far from luxurious; it's small and crowded with my brother's college flatmates, but we've made it home. "Mum, don't start," I say quietly, trying to keep my voice level. "You know it's not like that."

"Don't you dare talk to me like that," she snaps, wobbling forward until she's standing too close. Her breath reeks of cheap vodka. "You leave me in that hole, never once offering to help—" She breaks off, words trailing into an incoherent mumble before reigniting, louder and sharper. "You think you're better than me, don't you, Alison?"

My jaw sets, and I take a calming breath. "No, I don't," I say softly, though my heart hammers with both hurt and outrage. "But I can't stay with you anymore, Mum. You know why." The memory of her constant drunkenness and the nights I spent hiding in my room flash in my mind, and my stomach churns.

"You ungrateful little—" Her face twists with contempt, and she raises a hand as though to punctuate her words. Instinctively, I step back, and a sharp wave of panic zips through me at the possibility she might swing.

George is there in an instant, positioning himself between us. "All right," he says firmly, eyes blazing. "That's enough. You're drunk, Mum. You can't just barge in here—"

"Don't you speak to me like that," Mum screeches, lurching forward to jab a finger into his chest. "You think because you've got your big fancy uni degree, you're better than your own mother?"

George's expression stays taut, but his voice trembles with controlled anger. "Stop it, Mum. We've been trying to help you for years, but you won't let us. You show up here, half out of your head, yelling at us—what do you expect?"

Tension crackles through the living room. I can't handle watching her berate George like this any longer. "He's right," I say, stepping up to his side. "You can't keep blaming us for your choices. We've done what we can, but you need help—professional help."