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Men with expensive suits and charming smiles have always asked her out when she temps. Understandably. My mother's beautiful and kind--and therefore viewed as an easy target. To them, she's a fling. A disposable hot piece to occupy their time until it hints at becoming serious. Then, they leave. It was a painful lesson. She was forced to learn to be careful with her heart and not fall for every jackass who winks at her.
I'm not the easiest person to get along with. I had to promise I'd back off after threatening too many boyfriends with missing body parts if they hurt her. Let her be the "adult" and make her own decisions. So I refused to acknowledge any of my mother's boyfriends again.
Then came Nick.
Nick was careful with her from the beginning. Asked her out for coffee for their first date and then lunch. Eventually, dinner and a movie. He slowly got close to her. And, in that time, I let him in too.
He was different. Until he wasn't.
I pull back the covers for her to climb in.
It's the same full bed she's slept in since she was a girl. This room is basically the same as when she shared it with her sisters, growing up. Dried flowers hanging from pins along the windowsill memorialize loves lost. Layers of time wallpaper every surface. Photos, art projects, yellowing band posters--constant reminders of the life we'll never escape. It's so ... depressing.
Nick's soothing cologne lingers, at odds with the offensive herbal incense my mother burns--another indication that his presence was always a contradiction to everything within these walls.
"Lana, I'm--"
"Sorry. I know." Crimson stains blossom on the white pillow as blood begins to drip from her nose. "Shit, Mom."
I reach for the box of tissues and pull out a few. She takes them from me and presses the cluster under her nose. The hint of dark circles creeps beneath her eyes.
I fumble with the top of the prescription bottle. Dumping a small pill into my palm, I hand it to her along with the glass of water by her bedside. She takes it, swallowing it down.
"I'll get some ice."
By the time I return with ice wrapped in a kitchen towel, a scarlet pile of tissues has overtaken her nightstand. Blood trickles from beneath the tissue, staining her upper lip. I swap out the tissues for a damp facecloth and hand her the ice to apply to the bridge of her nose.
"You're going to be late for school," she mutters in a nasally voice, unable to open her eyes.
"I know." I was always going to be late, but she doesn't need to know that. There was no way I could have gotten the laundry done and still been on time. So now, I'll just be ... later. "Will you be okay while I get ready?"
"Go," she urges quietly.
Hesitating a second, I leave the door cracked, so I can hear her if she calls for me.
When I return to check on her, she's asleep. But I know it's a troubled sleep by the way her brows pinch together, the pain apparent behind her lids. I brush the wisps of honey-blond hair away from her face. She's warm to the touch, a hint of a fever. She's been suffering from migraines for as long as I can remember, triggered by stress and ... heartache. I don't know why her body betrays her every time someone else does. Maybe her heart can't handle being broken.
Over the past few months, despite being truly happy, the migraines have kept coming, accompanied by nosebleeds. Last week, she scared us when she grabbed hold of the counter to stay upright. Nick set up an appointment with her doctor for next week, even though she insisted it was nothing.
I watch her for a moment longer. Her face is pale, except for the fully formed shadows under her eyes and the flush of fever on her cheeks. Her lids twitch. This isn't nothing, and it's starting to freak me out.
I refill the glass of water at her bedside and leave a note, telling her I'll call her during lunch and that she has to pick up or else I'll come home. I leave her in her restless sleep as I slip out the front door.
My chest hurts and my whole body is weak with exhaustion. And I wasn't even the one who loved him.
Chapter Two
"He didn't love you!" I hear my grandmother yell.
I slowly crack my door, just enough so I can see without being caught.
"He did! And maybe he still does," my mother cries back, her face wet with tears. "Just let me call him."
My grandmother is holding my mom's phone. "If he loved you, then where is he?"
My mother's wide eyes are too stunned for words. A cry escapes her mouth as she runs out, slamming the front door behind her so hard, it cracks.
I hand the forged note, claiming I was at a doctor's appointment this morning, to Mrs. Kellerman in the front office. She gives it a suspicious glance as she scribbles on the tardy slip.
