“You need to leave,” she sobs.
“I’m not?—”
“They’ll be back any minute. Go!”
She eases herself out of his arms, but he reaches for her again.
“I’m not giving up. I’ll be waiting for you when you get back to New York. We need to talk about this.”
My mother shakes her head. “Just go, Neil.”
The man drags a hand down his face, then turns to leave. My mother watches him go, a hand over her heart as her shoulders tremble.
“I love you,” she says to his retreating back. He walks down the jetty, not seeing me as I tuck myself away in the shadows of the boat.
My mother’s parting words to him ignite something in me.
“What the actual fuck!” I roar, storming out from my concealed spot once he’s gone.
My mother jerks with shock, her eyes going round as she sees me. “Slade, how long?—?”
“Fucking long enough!”
She winces at my anger. I’ve never raised my voice to a woman in my life.
“You’re cheating on Dad? With him?” I spit the last word out in disgust. “Who the fuck is he?”
“Someone I knew a long time ago.”
Her lower lip wobbles and she tries to compose herself, blinking rapidly to fight against the tears pooling along her lower lids.
“It’s not like you think, it’s?—”
“So, you didn’t just tell some other guy that you loved him?” I snap, walking closer. “I imagined hearing that, did I?”
“Stop,” she whispers, pressing a hand to her mouth and turning away. She rushes onto my father’s yacht and goes inside the cabin—into the plush interior bar my father had redecorated into blues and golds because she said she liked the colors.
He did it for her, because he’d do anything to make her happy.
And she’s been seeing some other guy behind his back. Falling in love with him.
“How long have you been having sex with him?” I snarl, stomping after her.
“Slade, that’s?—”
“Don’t deny it! Don’t treat me like I’m stupid, Mom. How could you?”
“We have… history. I never intended this to happen, but he messaged me and I… I wanted to see him. There were things I needed to say to him after the way things were left between us years ago, and…” Her shoulders shake as she loses control of her tears and bursts into sobs.
But I can no longer tell if they’re tears of regret, guilt, or mere panic at being caught.
This is my mother, but it’s like I’m suddenly staring at a stranger.
“I never planned this, Slade. You need to believe that.”
“I don’t need to believe anything!”
I walk over to the bar and brace my hands against its smooth, dark surface. It’s glossy and slick, made from African Blackwood that Dad had specifically sourced. Again, because my mother liked it.
