“Home sweet home!” she howled, in her best imitation of Vince Neil. “Tonight,toniiiiiiight!”
Alex joined her, and the kitchen rang with their high-volume, off-key rendition of one of her favorite songs. In that moment, he could have been a kid again, riding along in the backseat as he and his mom rocked out to hair-metal bands.
Music puristshatedthat shit, and he didn’t give a fuck. With each ripping guitar riff, each dated synth solo, he thought of his mother. He thought of their road trips together, and their school-day breakfasts together, and their matching feathered mullets inside her locket, and he settled more comfortably into his own skin for a fleeting moment.
He missed his mom. He’d been missing her for over a decade. And from now on, they’d be spending more time together. The shame of his failure to help her might never leave him, but she deserved better than a son she saw once a year.
If he stayed in L.A., he’d try to visit every other month. And if he moved near her … well, they could see each other as often as they wanted. Every week, or even every day.
It was Friday morning. His flight back to L.A. left in a matter of hours, and they still hadn’t talked about his possible future in Florida. He couldn’t delay any longer.
As she slid the plate of cinnamon toast in front of him, he set his elbows on the round kitchen table and looked up at her. “Thanks, Mom.”
“It’s your last day here, and it’s your favorite.” She ruffled his hair, exactly the same way she had for almost forty years. “If you wanted, I’d make you an entire loaf of cinnamon toast.”
He’d felt like an exhausted old man since Lauren left him, his entire body stiff and aching. In contrast, his mom had been energetic and cheery during his visit, her movements easy, her black eye fading. Bike accident or no bike accident, she was in better shape than him at the moment, and he was glad for it.
Sitting in the chair beside his, she dug into her oatmeal, still humming between bites.
“Listen,” he began, picking at the crust of the nearest toast slice. “I was thinking.”
“That spells trouble.” Her standard response, offered with her usual grin.
He tried to return her smile, but couldn’t. At which point, she set down her spoon and studied him with disconcertingly sharp gray eyes.
“Sweetheart …” Her hand covered his. Squeezed. “I know you’re hurting. I don’t know why, and I didn’t want to press, but I’m here if you want to talk about it.”
He stared down at his plate until his blurry vision cleared. Then he laid his free hand over top of hers to make a hand sandwich, as they’d always called it.
“I’m considering moving back home,” he said. “Near you.”
Her graying brows drew together, and she clicked the remote to turn off the music. “What about your career?”
“I’ve played pretend long enough, don’t you think?” He tried to laugh. “Besides, I don’t have many job offers right now.”
She was still watching him very, very carefully. “Do you have any?”
“One. A reality travel show for a streaming service.” His shoulders twinged as he tried to lift them in a shrug. “It’s a good opportunity, but I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?” Her head tilted, and her ponytail followed. “Why are you unsure?”
His jaw worked, but he made himself say it. “Maybe it’s time for me to be less selfish.”
“Alex …” Her chair screeched against the floor as she abruptly turned it in his direction. “What doesthatmean?”
He’d been avoiding the subject for over eleven years. Because he hadn’t wanted to discuss anything that might cause her pain, and because he was ashamed. But he owed her an apology, at long last. He owed her amends.
He bowed his head and bit his lip until he tasted copper. “I’m so sorry, Mom.”
“I don’t—” Her hand turned, and suddenly she was holding his, squeezing as he trembled. “I don’t understand, sweetheart.”
His breath shuddered in his lungs. “I should have realized what he was doing to you. I should have stopped it.”
No need to specify thehein question. They both understood.
“But …” Her hold on him tightened to the point of pain. “Alex, there’s no way—”
“I introduced you, and I pressured you to stay with him when you had doubts,” he interrupted, because no, he wouldn’t let her absolve him, not when his neglect had hurt her so badly. “And then I left and didn’t bother looking back. If I’d visited more often, I’d have known what was happening. If I’d called and asked questions, I’d have known what was happening. If I’d been a decent son, instead of a selfish asshole, I’d have fuckingknown what was happening.”
