The conversation comes and goes like that—memories of his childhood dog they had growing up. How he, Emmett, and Landon spent their summers exploring their property and getting dirty. My camping trips with my mom, just the two of us.
When I mention her, he doesn’t tense or change the subject. He gently asks, “What was she like?”
My throat tightens.
My mom was so many things. She was like the air after it rains. Warm, clean sheets fresh from the dryer. The hum of a favorite song.
She was everything good. And then she was gone.
How can you summarize someone who was so much?
“She was the best person I’ve ever known,” I say, my voice quieter now. “She always knew the right thing to say.” I pause, swallowing hard. “I miss her and I resent her. All at once.”
Wesley nods, letting my words linger between us.
“Sometimes I’m angry at my mom, too,” he says after a moment. He doesn’t look at me. His gaze stays fixed on the road, jaw tight. “I feel like she gave up. There was still hope she could’ve gotten better.”
Neither of us says anything. “Look After You” by The Fray fills the silence.
“It’s normal,” I finally say. “I’ve had three psychiatrists tell me it’s an ugly but necessary part of grief.”
Wesley glances over. His voice is quiet. “Three?”
I exhale, pulling my mouth to the side. “Three,” I confirm. “Not because I’m crazy or anything—though I’m sure that’s what it sounds like. Not that there’s anythingwrongwith seeing three different doctors—”
“Why?”
“Do you really want to know?” I ask, barely above a whisper.
“Not if you don’t want to tell me.”
“No, it’s okay.” I inhale deeply, then let it out. “After my mom died, things with Warren got…worse. We fought constantly. I was angry, and he didn’t understand me. He didn’t even try. On my fifteenth birthday, my friends dragged me to a party. I didn’t even want to go—I wanted to stay home, but they insisted.”
My voice wavers, and I clear my throat.
“Photos were leaked. You could see everything—liquor bottles, coke lines. My face in the background, illuminated by the flash. The media had a field day. It was everywhere for weeks.”
Wesley shifts beside me, tightening his grip on the wheel.
“My father had me drug tested. I came back clean—I didn’t need anything to feel numb. I already was. But that didn’t matter to him. The next morning, I had an appointment with a psychiatrist.” I shake my head. “I saw her twice a week for a month. I didn’t lie. I told her everything. She said I wasn’t sick—I was simply a girl grieving her mom. That should’ve been the end of it.”
I pause, swallowing hard.
“But Warren wasn’t satisfied. Two days later, I was on a new couch, in a new office. Psychiatrist number two. She said the same thing. Told him to be patient. To show up for me.” Iclose my eyes for a beat. “And then one day I came downstairs for breakfast and there was a man in our kitchen. Middle-aged, round glasses, and a yellow notepad.”
My voice cracks, but I bite down until it steadies.
“He was lucky number three. And of course, he agreed with the first two.” I glance at Wesley, then quickly look away. “Warren accused me of manipulating them. Said I must be lying. Even implied I was…beinginappropriatewith the male psychiatrist. He blatantly refused to believe I wasonlysad. To him, my sadness had to mean extreme mental distress.”
A dry, humorless laugh escapes me, followed by another tear I wipe away before it falls.
Wesley looks at me—like,reallylooks at me.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is low and rough. “Guess that answers my question about why you call himWarrenand not dad.”
I smile sadly. “I don’t think he’s ever felt like a dad to me.”
The truck pulls off onto the shoulder, slowly rolling to a stop. I look over at him, expecting irritation—deflection—but instead I find something tight and unfamiliar in his expression. “Ceilings” by Lizzy McAlpine starts playing and the timing punches me in the chest.
