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I realized I still hadn’t promised when Rhys sat up and studied my face. He reached out a hand and brushed his fingers through my hair. “Don’t be scared. Please.”
His voice was so soft it almost broke me. I closed my eyes and shook my head.
“I’m trying.”
“I would never hurt you. It doesn’t matter what you tell me.”
“That’s not what I’m scared of,” I reassured him.
I’m scared because you have the power to rip this all away. Not just by leaving, but by becoming a different person once you know how shitty the world can be.
I looked at Rhys and remembered his anger from the night before. I wasn’t being fair. I knew I wasn’t. It wasn’t fair that I was so scared to hurt him that I lied by omission. I just didn’t quite know how to stop.
“Okay,” I said. “All right, no more lies.”
Rhys kissed my cheek and ran a hand through my hair.
“Thank you. You want to make coffee, get some breakfast?”
“Together?”
Rhys nodded and got out of bed and when I stood up, he wrapped me in his arms and hugged me so tight I could hardly breathe. Rhys’s hugs felt like they had the power to reshape me into another form, squeeze out everything rotten and broken and leave me with only the parts his body touched.
“You’re really good at this fighting thing,” I muttered.
Rhys finally laughed, and it was so fucking good to hear.
“I’m laying it on a little thick, I know. I just don’t know how else to prove to you that I can be upset with you and we can fight, but it doesn’t mean I don’t love you. That fighting doesn’t mean leaving.”
His expression was utterly sincere.
“Thanks. It’s . . . it’s probably a good plan.”
He gave me one last squeeze, and we went downstairs.
We made coffee and Rhys got a bowl of cereal and I hacked off a piece of the pumpkin pie. Rhys’s eyes got big and he leaned in and snagged a bite of my pie.
“Mmm,” he said, and I pushed my plate toward him, opting to eat from the pie tin.
We sat in the living room, where lemony sunlight poured in the windows. Birds chirped and leaves rustled and pumpkin filling melted on my tongue.
It was a perfect moment, except that my stomach was in knots.
“I guess I should tell you things now?” I said.
I didn’t know you could sigh with your whole body until I saw Rhys do it. “I wish you would.”
“Can you . . .” My breath came short. “Can you hold my hand again?”
Rhys nodded. He took my hand and brought it to his lips, then held it tightly.
“Rhys. Don’t . . . don’t say anything bad about my mom when I tell you, okay? I—she . . . just don’t.”
“I promise.”
I let out a breath.
“I thought she was glamorous. She worked as a waiter at this Spanish restaurant that had music and dancing. Her uniform was one of those skirts with all the ruffles and layers and stuff? When she walked, it swirled around her legs like she was dancing. I would sit on the stoop and wait for her to come home and sometimes I would see her skirt before I saw her. It’s how I always picture her, in that skirt. Big fake red flower in her hair.”
“Was her hair curly like yours?” He stroked my hair, and I leaned into his hand.
“Curlier. Sometimes on the weekends, she’d try to make it more like waves with those thingies?” I gestured.
“Hot rollers?”
“Yeah. But it didn’t really work. She hated her hair. I thought it was pretty.”
My mother with her hair up in those rollers and a bandanna tied around them, fussing with herself in the mirror exasperatedly. All she saw was every flaw. I thought she was perfect.
“We were living with my aunt and my cousins. It was always crowded and loud. The neighborhood was really bad when I was a kid. Drugs. I didn’t mind that much because my mom was there, but . . . Oh man, she wanted out so bad. She hated the apartment and she hated the neighborhood. She hated my dad for leaving; she hated him before he left. She hated everything.
“My father had lived with us on and off when I was little, disappearing for months at a time. He’d left for good when I was five. I didn’t remember anything but yelling. A mix of English, Spanish, and Italian, but mostly anger. I think they hated each other. After he left, my mom brought us to live with my aunt. She always called her my aunt, but I don’t think they were really sisters because my aunt had reddish hair and was a lot older than my mother.”
The few bites of pie I’d eaten soured in my stomach. I was speaking calmly but my voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.
