Page 155 of True Blue

“When you were grieving Nana, when you needed me, I was giving that energy to my mother—doesn’t matter that she manipulated me or not—I should have been there for you. Nana loved you, and you loved her. You were grieving her as I was. More honestly than my own mother, if we’re being real.”

Indie’s eyes fill with tears once more, but her jaw is still set, her lip quivering. I ache to reach out and hold her, but I don’t have the right.

Then I wince, knowing these are going to burn.

“The celiac incident. I should never have let you back into that house again. The constant fucking disrespect that makes me sick to think about now. The way you would fold in on yourself. The way I let my father and uncles be disrespectful to you, to my Nana, to my sisters… I should have stood up for you. All of you.”

I want to kiss each of Indie’s tears away. I want to catch every single one. I want to stop her from hurting, but the only way out is through.

Closing my eyes against the sting of my own tears, I take a deep breath before I finish.

“For not communicating with you about that night, the day you lost Andrea, when I should have been there for you, and not at that stupid fucking theme park with my family and my ex. I should have supported you, comforted you, held you.”

Indie’s eyes soften.

“Fuck if it was my mom’s birthday or not, you’re my fucking life. My heart. And you were hurting,” I clear my throat when my voice breaks on the last word. “And for what I said… the horrible, awful things I said to you. For backing out on this vacation that we could have spent together. For backing out on Jersey that I wanted so fucking bad, you don’t even know, honey⁠—”

Indie flinches at my slip, and I curse myself before taking a deep breath.

“There are not enough words in the English language to express how sorry I am, so…”

Indie frowns as I clear my throat.

“I’m so incredibly sorry for my abysmal behavior, Indie,” I say, and the tension in her body bleeds slightly.

I press my hand to my chest and stumble in French, “Je suis désolé, Indie.”

The firm line of her mouth eases slightly at that.

“Het spijt me,” I apologize in Dutch, stumbling once more over the words like my mouth is full of peanut butter. Indie snorts, before schooling her face.

In German, I say, “Es tut mir leid, meine Liebste.”

Indie swallows hard.

“Mi dispiace, dolcezza,” I say, my Italian is a little better than the other languages.

The corner of Indie’s lips quirks, and I finish in Greek, “Λυπάμαι, Indie.”

Indie is quiet for a long moment, and she just studies me before she chuckles lightly.

“Wow. Okay, that was…”

“Only some of what you deserve.”

Silence stretches between us, to the point of awkwardness. I shift in my seat, and Indie drops her arms from across her chest.

“So what now?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I mean, are you still speaking to your mother⁠—”

“No,” I shake my head firmly.

“No?”

“No. None of them.”