Page 33 of Before You Fell

I could ignore it, and I probably should, because Mom has always been too good at hearing what I don’t choose to say.

I answer anyway. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart. How are you?”

I stare at the ceiling. “Fine.”

The pause on the other end tells me she doesn’t buy it.

“You still haven’t told me about the tour,” she says gently. “How was it?”

I let my head sink back against the couch and wait for the pill to take the sharp edges off the room.

“It was amazing,” I lie, because this is the version she gets.

“That’s wonderful. I saw a clip online. The crowd was singing so loudly. All those people singing your words, Willow..”

My throat tightens.

“They were loud.”

“You must be so proud.”

“I am,” I lie.

“And Phoenix? How is he?”

There it is. His name in my mother’s voice, soft with old affection. She still thinks of the boy who sat at our kitchen table, eating toast, his hair too long and his eyes too guarded, looking at me as if I were the only person in the world who made sense.

She is unaware of the man he has become or perhaps she is and cherishes the past so dearly that she cannot truly see him.

Dad does. He sees more than Mom lets herself see. Every time I go home, he finds a quiet way to warn me that Phoenix’s ego will drag him down one day. He never has to say the rest out loud for me to hear it. Stay clear of the wreckage, Willow. Don’t stand close enough for him to take you with him.

“He’s fine,” I say. “You know how he is, Mom.”

She is quiet for a moment. “And you’re happy, Willow?”

The pill begins to kick in.

“Yes, I’m happy, Mom.”

She lets out a breath and the relief in it makes me hate myself. “Good. That’s all I ever want for you, sweetie.”

“Me too,” I say, and the lie slips out so easily it makes me feel like shit.

We’ve barely spoken since I got back. I’ve been meaning to call her properly, to sit still long enough to be someone’s daughter instead of a voice with excuses, but I keep putting it off.

That’s the thing about guilt. It doesn’t stop you from being awful. It just sits there, watching as you do it.

“Well, I have to go,” I say, staring at the ceiling. “Someone is waving at me to hurry up.”

“Okay,” Mom says. “Love you.”

“Love you too, Mom. Say hi to Dad for me.”

After I hang up, I lie back on the couch with my phone still in my hand, and the apartment is too quiet around me.

The pill keeps working, sanding down the sharpest edges until everything feels farther away than it should.