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“You were right, you know,” I tell her, playing with the lid of my cup. “I should have gone after her. We wasted so much time and then when it mattered, instead of just following her, I wasted even more. You know, I thought it was so important to convince Willow why us being together wasn’t a bad thing, instead of just saying fuck it. It shouldn’t matter what everyone else thinks, should it?”
Maisie doesn’t answer, falling into silence next to me. She offers no words of reassurance, nor words of doubt. She sits beside me, letting me get lost in my thoughts.
“Is she okay?” I ask, holding my breath as I wait for her answer.
“Truth?” I nod, my lips pulling into a line. “I don’t know. She barely replies to me, and when she does, they’re one-word texts at best. But I know right now that she is surviving, and that’s more than can be said for her worst days.”
My heart aches at her words.
Surviving? Is that the gold standard these days? To just survive? She says I need to thrive, that I can only do that without her . . . but what chance does she have?
The only positive in this is that at least she’s talking to one of us, even if it’s only minimal. My own texts have gone unanswered. All forty-two—three a day to say good morning, good night, and to tell her I miss her.
I may have respected her decision to walk away from us, but I didn’t expect her to disappear from my life. Not when I just found her again. That’s the part that sucks the most.
Being with Beatrice has been the best part of my twenty years on this planet, but if not being together is what she thinks is right, I can live with that. But the thought of living my life without her in it at all . . . I’m not even sure that’s a life worth living anymore.
We sit there for a while, just staring out into the distance. But eventually rain trickles from the sky, the gray clouds threatening a brewing storm. Fitting.
Tossing the untouched coffee, I grab my backpack from the ground and sling it over one shoulder as I say my goodbyes to Maisie and start toward the football field. She grabs my wrist, halting my footsteps.
I spin to look at her, my chest constricting at the sympathy written all over her face. “She doesn’t blame you, Maverick. I hope you know that.”
“No?” She shakes her head, loosening her hold on me and giving me a small wave as she turns to go inside. It’s only when I make it to the field that my brain voices the thoughts I didn’t say aloud.Maybe she should.
Chapter Thirty
Beatrice
Momentertainsmyslackerlifestyle for about three weeks, letting me wallow in self-inflicted misery as I walk around the house like a ghost, unable to eat or do anything. But this afternoon, she’s had enough.
“No more, Beatrice,” she snaps, dragging the blanket off my legs and flipping the TV off. “You said this was the right decision for you, but at this moment in time, I don’t see it. I don’t care that you dropped out of college, but you need to get off that goddamn couch and dosomething, because I can’t watch you wither away again. So, get up, go in the shower, and get dressed. I have errands to run today, and you’re coming with me. Chop chop.”
“Mom,” I whine, but she props her hands on her hips, giving me her best don’t-fuck-with-meface. Grumbling, I peel myself off the couch, scowling when I pass her. “Fine.”
“There’s a good girl.” She pats me on the head, brushing my hair away from my face. I drag myself up the stairs, shoving into my bathroom and flipping the shower on. The warm water does nothing for my downtrodden mood as I try to wash away the grime I’ve let linger for longer than I should.
A single shower can’t work that kind of magic, but maybe Mom is right. Making this decision, I know it’s the right one, and I need to remind myself of that now. Instead of falling into a pit of despair, I need to push past the pain and start working on myself.
I can’t afford to drown again; I don’t think I’ll ever find land if I do.
The water runs cold, and I step out of the stream, wrapping a fluffy towel around myself before swiping away the condensation coating the mirror. My eyes are red and puffy, the reminder of the tears that come in waves every night. Black bags stain the usually tanned skin below and my cheekbones are sunken, and my usually soft jaw, hard and prominent.
Sighing, I turn away from my reflection, rushing through my post-shower routine. By the time I’m dressed—donning ripped black mom jeans and an oversized black sweater—my hair falls into loose waves down my back, bursting with product to help the strands look more lively and less limp, and my face is coated in layers of makeup in an effort to make myself appear more human . . . it doesn’t work.
Mom waits for me in the kitchen, a Stanley cup filled to the brim with coffee in her hand for me. She passes it over, and I take a generous sip, grateful for the hazelnut that explodes on my taste buds as it hits my tongue. “Okay, let’s go do your errands.”
Linking our arms together, she grabs her handbag from the counter and her keys from the wall and tugs me toward the garage where her black Range Rover waits for us. The drive into town takes less than twenty minutes, but the time is just enough for me to finish my coffee while Cher fills the speakers.
“Okay, my girl,” Mom starts, grabbing a cart and pushing it in my direction when we hit Target. “You grab this list, and meet me back here in thirty, yes?”
I nod, glancing over her messy scrawl. “Mom, why on earth do you need all this random stuff? Placemats, new glassware? Are you having a party?”
She chuckles, swapping our lists when she realizes she’s given me the wrong one. “Your dad and I are having a couple friends over when he gets home tomorrow, and I don’t often spoil myself these days, so I thought, why not, as a little treat?”
“Spoiling yourself is new tableware?” My nose wrinkles, and I look at her like she’s lost her damn mind. Because she totally has. “Go get your hair done, or a massage or something.”
She shakes her head, patting me on the shoulder. “You’ll understand when you’re my age. Now shoo.” She pushes me toward the groceries, my list crumpling in one hand, the cart in my other. “Treat yourself too, baby. Dad’s paying.”
