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"Promise."
"I promise."
"You mean that?"
I nod. I really do.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Brendon
After hours of driving mindlessly, I end up where I'm supposed to be. The cemetery in Culver City. It's the perfect place for my parents to rest forever.
The freeway is on one side. The mall is on another. A pocket of expensive houses is on the third.
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The shiny billboards tacked to the mall cast a soft glow over the lush green grass. It's fucked how green this grass is—our entire state is out of water—but it would be more fucked if it was as dead as the people buried here.
I clutch the bouquet of roses. Mom's favorite. A cliché, yeah, but it's hard to do anything but love roses. They spread open, invite your touch, then reward you with a prick to the fingertip.
They're a perfect fucking metaphor. Beautiful. Guarded. Dangerous.
I've lost track of how many rose tattoos I've done. Hell, of how many I've done this month. Everyone wants that strong, barbed feminine beauty on their skin.
It suits Mom.
Strong. Beautiful. Viscous.
My canvas shoes soak up every drop of dew on the grass. It's a cool night. It should be dark, but those stupid fucking billboards are as bright as a dozen full moons.
My feet remember the path. I'm not sure how. It's been an eternity since I've been here. The funeral. A few times when Em wanted to go the first year. Then never.
I've certainly never come here alone.
There. Almost all the way at the back, halfway down the row. Josephine Kane. Elliot Kane.
My memories of Mom are sharper than my memories of Dad. But then she was so much sharper than Dad. She was always the picture of the perfect trophy wife. Educated. Pretty. Dark hair cut in a chic straight line. The latest designer clothes. A schedule filled with proper hobbies and volunteering.
When I was a kid, she spent a lot of time with me. She'd read to me. Take me to the park. Bring me on all her lunches and community meetings. Then she had Emma, and it was the three of us together. Dad was always busy. Working. But Mom poured time into us.
She loved us.
She loved me. At least that guy I was then.
It wasn't until I discovered punk music and insisted on wearing ripped jeans that I lost her affection.
It wasn't all at once. It was a little bit at a time. She'd look at me like my decisions were wrong. Like they disgusted her. Then like there was no coming back for me.
I guess there wasn't.
I get why she asked me not to come around anymore. I get that she was protecting Emma. Fuck, if there's anything I get it's protecting Emma.
It was bullshit.
She didn't look past what she saw.
But then I didn't either.
