Mom’s eyes widened. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. Parker Wells Sr. Was he my father?”
My mother stood, hastily pacing back and forth, muttering something incoherent under her breath. “Who told you that?”
“Is it true?”
She grabbed her robe off a chair and pulled it on. “I’m not talking about this.” She tied the silk fabric at her waist and stomped toward the closet.
I followed her, stood near her but not too close. I needed to keep my distance. “Tell me.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Dropping to her knees, she opened her trunk and tossed pieces of clothes behind her. She was looking for her stash.Interesting. The mere mention of the man had made her run for the liquor.
“Ma?” I touched her shoulder.
She jerked away from me. “Stop. Just…no.” She pulled out a full bottle of Tito’s, opened the top, and took a big gulp.
I dropped my head. In the back of my mind, I knew it was true. From the moment she’d told me, I’d felt it. And my mother’s reaction had confirmed it. Even if she didn’t know for sure,shethought Mr. Wells was my father.
She shuffled toward the recliner in the corner of the room and plopped down on it. Then, she took another sip from the bottle. “This conversation is over.” She held up the bottle. “See what you made me do?”
“Don’t put that on me. You could’ve just as easily drank a bottle of water.”
She leaned her head against the cushion and stared out the window. “News flash. Parker is dead, anyway, so it really doesn’t matter.”
“You would’ve never even told me there was a possibility I had a different father.”
“I told you what you needed to know.” She shrugged. “That’s all.”
“You’ve manipulated me my entire life.” And I’d let her, even after I was old enough to know better.
The late-night calls begging for money, the guilt trips for not being there when she needed me, and the emotional distance she’d insisted on keeping between us had done irreparable damage through the years. I didn’t have to spend hundreds of dollars on therapy to know that being Kenya Hayes’ son had somehow tarnished my life. The notion that I could have a healthy, committed romantic relationship had died a long time ago. Any hope for a semblance of normalcy seemed like a far-off dream, not even possible in light of my past. I’d spent so much of my time building walls to protect myself from more pain, more anguish, that I didn’t even know if Icouldfall in love.
She snorted. “Please, you put me through some shit too. Always getting in trouble, going to court.”
I would be the first to admit I wasn’t perfect. Never pretended to be anything but me. I had to fight to keep from getting my ass kicked in the streets. I had to beat the shit out of many of her boyfriends just to get them off her. And I wasn’t proud of it, but I had to steal to eat some days. Yes, I had an anger problem, but I fully believed that stemmed from the things I’d had to see, the things I’d had to do to protect her and to stay alive.
“I wonder why,” I said, sarcasm dripping from my words. “It’s not like I had a good example. Instead of acting like my mother, you alternated between treating me like your nuisance or your man.”
Her expression hardened. “I took care of your little ass.” She stood and stalked toward me. “I gave up my life for you.”
I let out a humorless chuckle. “You never let me forget it, either. You never passed up a chance to tell me how great your life was before you got pregnant with me. And when exactly did you take care of me? Between stints in rehab and abusive boyfriends?”
The sting of her palm against my cheek startled me. I took a reflexive step back, but she slapped me again. And again. While she hit me, the liquor in her bottle splashed in my face, on my clothes. I tried to snatch the vodka from her, but her grip was tight.
When I finally wrestled it from her grasp, I held it up. “And this? This is more important to you than I ever was.” I tossed it behind her. The glass crashed to the floor, shattering on the hard wood.
“Get out.” She swung at me again, but I easily dodged the contact. “This is my house,” she sneered. “And I don’t want you here.”
My throat went dry as anger pulsed through me. And since I’d never raise my hand to her or any other woman, I pounded my fist into the wall. The hole I’d left there would be a reminder of what she’d done and why this was the last time she’d ever be able to get under my skin. Straightening my shoulders, I glared at her. “Actually, this ismyhouse. I’m the one who pays the bills here. I’m the one who takes care of you.” I wiped my face with the back of my hand and stared down at my wet palm. “But you’re right, it’s time I get the fuck out of here.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Reaching for me, she took a step forward. “Preston.”
I backed away and lifted my hand up. “Don’t touch me. I love you. But I…” I let out a shaky breath. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Do what? I’m trying to get better. It’s not my fault. You just piss me off.”
I raised a brow. “Piss you off? Wow.”
