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I knewwhy my mother worried. The last time she saw me before she left my life the last time, I hadn’t seen her. I’d been unconscious in the hospital after I’d tried to kill myself by taking too many sleeping pills. It was my second attempt.
According to Nick, our mother had come to the hospital and looked at me for only a moment. Then she’d turned to Nick and told him it was too hard. That all of it was too hard. And then she’d walked out of the hospital and, except for generous transfers of money into our bank accounts, she hadn’t talked to either of us again.
Years later, Mom went into therapy—hence the acquaintance with Donna—and split up with our father. Dad was still incommunicado, but Mom decided to try and make amends. It was harder for Nick to forgive her, because Nick was the one who had watched her turn her back and walk out the hospital door. He’d been the one who’d watched her decide to leave the two of us to deal with everything on our own.
Me? It was different for me. In a way, I understood why Mom walked out that day. I understood how I hurt her by doing what I did. I’d given up, and I’d tried to check out—twice. I’d thought I didn’t matter, that no one would care, that everyone would be better off without the burden of me. I’d tried to bail. I couldn’t exactly fault her for doing the same thing.
And itwashard. All of it. Yet somehow, I was still here.
When Mom came back, trying to make things right again, I forgave her. We still had shit to work out, and it would never be the same as it had been before my accident, but when you don’t have many people, like me, you make every person count. It wasn’t her fault that I’d done what I’d done, twice. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Except maybe mine.
So when she visited, I let her in. I accepted her gifts. I let her get me a glass of water.
And when she left my life again, which she probably would, I could at least say I’d done that much.
I didn’t keep any sleeping pills in the house. No Percocet or fentanyl, either. Not even alcohol.
And if I hated the dark, I tried to remember that the sun always came up again.
* * *
We talkedin the living room. At first Mom sat next to me, touching my arm or holding my hand. Then she got up and fussed, checking that there was nothing wrong in the house, that the schedule on the fridge was right, that the housekeepers were doing a good job, that I didn’t need my laundry done. She talked to me about her life, her penthouse condo in downtown Millwood, her club, the charity boards she worked on. She talked about Nick and Evie—she liked Evie, though the relationship had taken a bit of time to warm up on both sides. Evie was suspicious of anyone who had hurt Nick as badly as my mother had.
“They come back tomorrow,” Mom said. “The flight is a long one, but I think it gets in—Who is that?”
She was looking out my front window. I pulled up my security app, my stomach sinking. I had a good guess who she was talking about.
On the camera, I saw Tessa leaving her house and crossing the street, heading for my door.
“That’s my new neighbor,” I said. “Her name is Tessa.” What the hell did she want? I didn’t want her here.
“You’re friends with the neighbor? How nice,” Mom said. Then she looked closer. “Oh, my goodness. What does her shirt say?”
I could guess. It was probably the shirt she’d worn on the first day she moved in, which saidGet the fuck out of my business. “Um, she’s a bit eccentric,” I said. Dread was settling in my stomach. “I didn’t know she was coming over.”
“What is she coming here for?”
“I don’t know, but—”
“It would be rude not to say hello if she’s your friend. Oh, and now she’s seen me through the window. I’ll go let her in.”
“Wait, Mom—”
But she was already out of the room.
SIXTEEN
Tessa
I admit it:I’d chickened out.
I worked the rest of my shift last night without texting Andrew. Without calling him. I stayed in my overheated house last night, and I didn’t text him this morning, either.
I went over and over it in my head. I should tell him that I’d said no to Nate. But then again, that sounded like I owed him that information, like we were in a relationship. Which we weren’t.
He’d never answered me, so I didn’t know if he cared if I said yes or not. Maybe he didn’t. Did I want him to care?
Why was I overthinking this? We were friends, right? Friends shared things that happened to them. I’d had friends before, even male friends. Why was it so hard to be friends with Andrew Mason?
