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I blink the tears out of my eyes. “It’s too late, Beau.”
I pour half a gallon of Cabernet into the biggest wineglass I have. I light a fire, grab a blanket, and cue up Scandal on Netflix. If anyone knows how much forbidden love sucks, it’s Olivia Pope and her married presidential lover.
I cry through three episodes as I wait for the numbness to set in. This is too much hurt. Too much regret. Embarrassment. I can’t feel it all and not combust. Surely, out of a sense of self-preservation, my body will just . . . stop responding to this shit, right?
What if I did irreparable damage to Nate’s relationship with Reese by confessing how I felt? I don’t doubt Nate loves her. How could he not? But there was this look in his eyes when I confessed—hurt, sure. And I could have been imagining it, but I thought I saw heat there too.
But that’s not who Nate is. He’s not the kind of man to get married while holding a torch for someone else.
Am I delusional to think he’s still holding a torch for me? Am I a narcissist? A homewrecker?
The idea fills me with a kind of hollow dread I can’t stand but probably deserve.
It is too. Damn. Much. A mess I don’t know how to clean up.
There’s a soft knock on my door. My heart skips a beat, and I go still, waiting for whomever it is to go away. Probably just one of my dumbass brothers offering a dumbass apology.
But just like The Chicks, I am not ready to make nice. So I ignore it and turn up the volume on the TV.
The knocking just gets louder.
“Goddammit,” I mumble, throwing off the blanket. I get up and round the corner, only to see my mom peeking through the glass door. She’s got something that looks suspiciously like a loaf of her famous chocolate chip banana bread wrapped in tin foil tucked underneath her arm.
She waves. I sob. As much as I want to be alone right now, I also want my mom.
“Aw, sweetheart,” she says after I unlock the door. She sweeps into the foyer, wrapping me in a tight, mom-scented hug. “I heard you’re having a tough day.”
My tears soak her shoulder as I nod. “Yeah,” I reply weakly.
She holds me like that for several beats, gently moving her hand across my back.
“How about we go inside? I’ll make some tea to go with this banana bread.”
“God, you’re the best,” I sniffle. “Thank you.”
She grins. “This is what moms are for. C’mon.”
I settle on a stool at the island while Mom bustles around my kitchen. Digging a kettle out of the pantry, she fills it with water, then sets the tin foil–wrapped loaf on a cutting board she pulls from a nearby shelf. While the water heats, she wipes down the countertops and folds the stack of dish towels beside the sink. Then she washes the dishes in the sink before rinsing the sink itself, turning on the garbage disposal to make sure it’s cleaned out.
I really do wonder if I’ve ever seen my mom sit down. I mean that in the proverbial sense—the way my brothers will often sit to watch football. Someone has to make dinner. Someone has to clean the kitchen and make sure everyone has clean socks for tomorrow and keep track of how much toilet paper is left. Someone has to empty the dishwasher, reload the dishwasher, take the dog for a walk . . .
My brothers help with stuff, but yeah, Mom is definitely the ultimate doer. It’s comforting to have someone like that around who gets shit done and takes care of everything and everyone.
I also know this is where I get my ruthless streak from. The need to be ruthlessly productive and organized. The same impulse to always be moving and doing that nips at Mom’s heels nips at mine too. Any other day, I’d be on my feet helping her right now. But today, I can’t muster the will to stand, much less organize my Tupperware drawer.
Makes me wonder why the two of us don’t sit more often.
Because there’s always so much to do.
But doing anything seems pointless at the moment. Maybe because I know no amount of productivity will heal the gaping wound inside my chest. But quality time with my mom? That might.
“Mom, you don’t have to do that. Here, come sit.” I pat the stool beside mine.
She just shakes her head, tidying the blue and red lids in a neat little stack before closing the drawer with her hip. “I’m all right. Water should be about ready.”
She makes us each a mug of English breakfast tea—Rhett’s fiancée, Amelia, got us hooked on it recently—and cuts a few thick slices of banana bread, putting the biggest one on a plate and passing it to me. The rich, moist bread is swirled with spices and dotted with a generous helping of mini chocolate chips. My stomach rumbles.
