Page 35 of Don't Tell

He turns to me with a frown. “Are you okay?”

My eyes dart toward my building, and I lock gazes with her. My heart drops to the pit of my stomach.No. Her gaze shifts to the car, then to Cade. A slow smile spreads across her lips.

I wrack my brain, trying to figure out what to do. Do I risk eternal shame and humiliation? Or do I drive off with Cade and deal with her later?

I watch in horror as she stands and begins walking to the car. My hand flies to Cade’s arm, and I begin to shake him. “Drive. Drive!”

“What? I thought this was your building. What is — ”

There’s a tugging sound by the passenger door. I turn and see her pulling the door violently.

Her brown eyes are filled with rage. “Open up, Suzanne. Let Mommy in.”

Oh god, please. Please let this stop.

“Cade, please. Just drive.” His eyes meet mine. I’m not quite sure what he sees in them, but it’s enough. He doesn’t ask a follow-up question. He fires the engine and zooms off, causing my mother’s hands to slide off the door.

I can see her mouth moving in the side mirror as we pull away. She is shouting something. I can’t hear it through the glass, and I don’t turn around to read her lips.

Cade remains silent as he drives, and for once, I wish he would talk to me. I wish he’d say anything. This silence is unbearable. I also can’t tell what’s going through his mind. Does he think less of me now? Does he see what Roger and Lila see when they look at me?

I don’t have the answers. I’m shaking.

I didn’t realize I was shaking until I tried to put my hands flat in my lap, and they would not sit. I fold them. I press them between my knees. I stare at a point on the dashboard between the two air vents.

He reaches across the console. He puts his palm down on the top of my knee. I close my eyes and let out a deep breath. My body doesn’t stop shaking until we pull into the Cresswell’s basement.

He brings me up through the private elevator. I don’t ask any questions. I don’t argue. I’m too tired and too embarrassed to. I would rather be here, in a building I know how to clean, than in my apartment where my mother might still be sitting on the steps.

He opens the suite. He lets me in first. He closes the door. He doesn’t turn on the main lights. The lamp by the desk is on from earlier.

He disappears into the kitchen and returns with a glass of water. He hands it to me. I take a slow sip and feel my body relax.

I remain standing because I need to control my body somehow. I need that. Cade doesn’t sit either. He’s only a few feet away from me.

"Who is she?"

I look at the glass in my hand.

I could lie. I could tell him she is nobody. I could tell him she is a woman from my building who has been harassing me for the lease. I could ask him to drive me to Renée’s couch and never speak of any of it.

"My mother." I hear myself say, and I can’t stop. The words just pour out of my mouth. “She didn’t raise me. My aunt did, from when I was a baby until I was thirteen.”

“Why didn’t she raise you?”

“She had me when she was fifteen. Marguerite, my aunt, offered to take me in while my mom finished high school, and she just left me there. It wasn’t until she died that I went to live with my mom. I lasted only five years. I didn’t wait a single day after my eighteenth birthday. I left.”

"Hmm… And the man?"

"His name is Darryl. They’ve been seeing each other, on and off, since I was thirteen. My great-aunt left me money for college. My mother spent it on him before I turned seventeen. He is, as far as I know, the person who encourages all of her bad decisions.”

“What does she want?”

I laugh. “What else? Money. Taking my college fund wasn’t enough. She has decided that I owe her. She wants Marguerite's stuff — the only thing I have left of her. That’s probably why she brought Darryl to force me into giving them to her.”

I don’t want to cry. I’m too tired to cry. Cade doesn’t speak yet. I gather the courage to look up at him. His face is devoid of emotion.

I wait for him to give me the oh-that-is-terrible look. I won’t blame him. It is terrible, and there’s nothing he can do except feel sorry for me. I’d rather he feel sorry for me than repulsion. Pity I can handle. The latter, not so much.