Page 4 of In Your Wake

… Makes You Stronger

Max

“He’s on his way.” Robyn walks into the kitchen, beaming with a wide, slightly weary smile.

“That’s good,” I reply flatly and scratch my nose.

I don’t blame her for being happy her son is coming home—she hasn’t seen him in years. But as the possibilities of how the next few weeks will play out unravel in my mind, something spiky stabs the inside of my stomach and I rub my belly. I pinch my lips together, wondering if I’m right or if I’m being ignorant, trying to pretend the tension in this house isn’t about to explode the minute Mitch walks in.

Affectionately rubbing my arm, Robyn tilts her head, and her light brown eyes flood with understanding. There’s a silent plea in them too, begging me to try harder, to not let my feelings about her son stand in the way of this long-awaited reunion.

“It’ll do Bill some good to see him,” I add, forcing a smile.

“It will,” she agrees.

The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes seem to get deeper every day. The last few months have sucked the life out of her, and it’s heartbreaking to watch.

Still, Robyn Adams remains one of the dearest people to me, a mother when mine wasn’t around and I needed one the most. Even when Robyn could have hated me simply by association, she took me in and showed me love.

Unlike her son.

“Are the new meds kicking in?” I ask, hoping to change the subject.

Robyn nods, filling a glass with water. “I think so. He seems more relaxed, anyway.” This time, her smile isn’t convincing and reminds me so much of Mitch.

For weeks, I’ve been counting down the days until his arrival. More like scratching them off in my brain. I knew today was coming, that no matter how absent he’d been over the years, he’d never miss the opening of the Four Brothers brewery. But despite picturing it countless times, I’m still not sure how I’ll react once I see him again.

I’ve repeatedly wrestled over hypothetical scenarios, and the only likely outcome is an eruption of anger and hurt. The massive fireball in my chest every time I think of seeing him tells me I’m better off hiding, keeping away from the entire Adams clan, at least until Mitchell leaves town.

“Wouldn’t it be better if I wasn’t here when he—” I begin, but am interrupted when Robyn takes my hand.

“I’d like you to stay. Having you here makes all of this easier.”

I’m not sure why she’d think that. The Adams’ house is the last place I want to be right now. I’m only sticking around out of some deep-seated thirteen-year-old guilt trip. After all, I’m partly to blame for the dysfunction in this family. So, I’ve got this sick need to make whatever I can better. I remind myself that I’m here to support Robyn, even if the man coming over won’t want me around.

She must see the uncertainty in my expression, feel the tension building on my back. “Max, I understand. If you’re not comfortable here, I won’t force you to stay.”

She takes a sip of water, keeping her eyes down, but her sadness triggers my own. She’s just trying to be kind, but I can’t abandon her. Today is as stressful for her as it is for me. Probably even more so.

I’m a big girl. I can handle this. Besides, we’re in the same boat; we’ve both been hurt by an Adams man. We need to support one another.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll stay.”

Her pale pink lips straighten into a tight smile, and she nods once.

Suddenly, Bill, who’s in the living room, hacks harshly, and we both freeze, waiting for the upcoming fit. Only it never comes, and my stomach drops as Robyn hurries to check on him. I follow behind, seeing her shoulders sag with relief.

“He’s fine,” she says. “I guess the meds are working.”

I recognize the small glimmer of hope that flickers through her eyes. Not a glimmer that he’ll get better, though. One that is thankful for the break the new medication is giving him. She needs that right now. The doctors remain adamant that this isn’t a cure. Nothing is guaranteed. This will only temporarily minimize his struggles.

“Stupid man,” Robyn whispers under her breath, returning to the kitchen and reaching into a top cabinet for something stronger than water. She sets two glasses on the table and pours some brandy.

“Have one.”

It’s an order, not a request, and I take it, swallowing down the alcohol in one gulp. I grimace as the burn runs down my throat.

Robyn, on the other hand, sips it as if savoring an expensive wine, and though she winces with every swallow, she keeps dragging it out. I guess the burn of the brandy is a welcome distraction from everything else. And I completely get it.