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But she doesn’t take it back.
And I shouldn’t pay what she said any mind. We’re just talking. She’s telling me about her family. If she thinks I’ll jump to conclusions, think she’s talking for me, she shouldn’t worry. I’m not that stupid.
“And your mom?” I wasn’t going to ask, but the damn question popped out of my mouth.
Sure, I’ve wondered. Wondered for a long time about it, back when I thought both our moms had skipped town, leaving us behind.
Before I realized just how different everything that went down was. How different we are. Fucking light years apart.
She’s gazing down at my hand wrapped around hers, turns mine over to smooth her little thumb over my scarred knuckles. “Mom and Dad got divorced many years ago. She walked away and never looked back. I guess we weren’t enough for her to stick around. She doesn’t give two hoots about me and Josh.”
I think about that. “What if she does?”
“I’m sorry?”
“What if your mom does care but something is keeping her away?”
“Ross...”
“I thought my mom didn’t give a shit about me, that she left because I let her down, because Dad was an asshole. But it turned out she hadn’t left town at all, and... Oh fuck, I don’t mean that anything happened to your mom, I...” I scrub a hand through my hair. “What I meant is, what if your mom wants to reach out and doesn’t know how?”
She’s blinking owlishly at me, like I’m speaking Chinese.
Why did I have to open my damn big mouth?
“Look, forget it,” I mutter.
“No,” she says slowly. “No, I tend to make up my mind about people’s reasons for doing stuff way too fast. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”
Don’t read anything into the things she says, I tell myself, don’t you fucking dare imagine she’s talking about you.
She hates you. She made that clear plenty of times.
But that fucking lump is still stuck in my throat, and I can’t fight the relief at having her here. Of all the people I’d ever dare to imagine having my back, she sure wasn’t a forerunner. And of all the people who could have helped me, believed in me even just enough to come check on me... she’s the most important. If I could have her trust, her touch, I wouldn’t need anyone else.
Sorry, Buddy.
Fuck, this fever has to be worse than I thought if it springs this kind of moronic thoughts on me.
This time it might just about kill me.
“Look...” I have to swallow hard. “I won’t miraculously change.”
I don’t even know why I’m telling her that. Maybe it’s an answer to a question she asked me before, maybe even long ago.
“I don’t care for miracles,” she whispers. “I just want you to try. To try and be a better version of yourself.”
“I can’t promise that.”
“Then don’t. But try. Try to understand why.”
“I hurt people.”
“But you can stop. In fact, you’ve done that already.”
A few beats of quiet linger between us.
Then I have to ask, “So what now?”
