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“He just—” She shakes her head, huffing out a breath as she glares at the ceiling. “He implied that I was being a slut for going out with my friends and, like, flirting with guys. As if it wasn’t the same thing as what he was doing. The misogynistic piece of shit basically said I should be at home with Elaine instead of out doing whatever.”
Anger spikes through my veins, overtaking the hint of jealousy I felt when she mentioned flirting with other guys. But that part is irrelevant right now—or completely, given that Daria and I aren’t dating—so I focus on my own fury at Logan. Part of me, a big part, wants to hunt the fucker down and put his head through a wall. But as my jaw clenches to the point of pain and I exhale slowly through my nose to calm down, my first priority is to be here for Daria.
“He talks out of his ass, you know that,” I tell her, forcing the rage out of my voice and gentling my tone for her. I prop myself up on my elbow, looking down at her pointedly as I add, “He’s irrelevant, Daria. You’re an incredible mom. Better than any I know.”
A beat passes, then bright blue eyes slide over to look up at me. The heaviness from before disappears, her eyes softening. The look on her face tightens my chest, her cheeks still a little pink, and quietly she says, “You don’t talk about your mom a lot.”
Surprisingly, I expected that. I see the curiosity in her eyes, hear it in her voice. It’s a gentle kind of inquisitiveness, not pushing but the wonder is still present. Daria isn’t someone I keep at arm’s length; I’ve talked to her about my dad, she’s told me about her tense relationship with her parents. But my mom—there’s a reason I don’t talk about her, and other parts of my childhood I keep close to the vest. There’s no point in drudging up things I can’t change—things I have told myself I’ve moved on from even if it doesn’t feel like it sometimes.
“There’s not much to say,” I say, shifting so I’m lying on my back once again. I fold my arm beneath my head, gaze on the ceiling while feeling Daria’s eyes on my profile, practically burning into my skin. “She split when I was a kid. Haven’t heard from her since.”
It’s a vague description that lacks any real sentimentality, which is how I prefer it. Because if I spend too long thinking about Mom, the anger, resentment, and hurt will swing forward, and I have no interest in confronting it. Not when it’s wrapped up in the thick layer of heartbreak over Sean’s death, the breaking point for all of us.
My jaw clenches and next to me, I hear Daria let out a soft breath. “I’m sorry for bringing it up,” she says, her voice gentled by regret and guilt.
“Nothing to be sorry about, Ria,” I tell her truthfully, turning my head so I can look at her. A corner of my mouth lifts, and I say, “Like I said—you’re a better mother than any I know.”
She gives me a small smile in return, though I can see the hint of sadness in her eyes, because now she knows a little bit about my mom, and my words have taken a different meaning. When she looks at me like that, I somehow don’t feel like I’m being pitied, and I know it has to do with the kind of person Daria is. She’s empathetic, more than anyone I know, and I think it’s one of her best qualities that makes her such a good mother.
I recognize those qualities in her as the same ones I used to see in my mom, before she left. She had been a good mother to us when she was around. But Daria isn’t my mom; I can see that, too. I may have known Daria a lot shorter than I knew my mother, but one thing I know for sure—Daria wouldn’t split the second things got impossible. She’d stick it out if it meant being there for her kid. That’s where the similarities between her and Mom end.
After a few moments of comfortable silence, Daria gets up with a sigh. She murmurs, mostly to herself, “Gotta wash this make up off.”
She swipes up my hoodie that had been on the edge of the bed, putting it on to cover her naked body. It falls around her thighs, and as she walks to the bathroom, I tell her, “There are makeup wipes in the mirror cabinet.”
Daria pauses, looking at me with a raised eyebrow. “Why do you have makeup wipes in your cabinet?” she asks, appearing both curious and amused.
I shoot her anare you dumb?look. “For you. For this exact reason.”
Something flashes across her face before it disappears and Daria adopts an exaggerated expression of disbelief. She presses a hand to her chest and exclaims dramatically, “Oh, my God, Caden, do youlikeme?”
I roll my eyes at her teasing and wave her off. “Iliketo not wake up to your raccoon eyes in the morning.”
Her jaw drops, eyes widening as a startled laugh escapes her. I’m fighting my own grin as she shakes her head and continues into the bathroom. “That wasfoul, Superstar.”
But it got a laugh out of her, and that’s all I wanted, really.
* * *
The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air of my apartment just as I hear footsteps approach. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Daria enter the open space of the kitchen and living room, wearing nothing but my shirt. Her blonde hair is somewhat tamed, my shirt like a dress on her frame, and it’s a sight I very much memorize. It’s rare that she stays the night at my place, but since Elaine is with Daria’s brother, there was nothing stopping her from spending the night in my bed instead of returning to her own.
“Hey, just made those,” I say, gesturing to the plate of pancakes on the counter. “Dig in.”
“It’s like being in a hotel,” Daria teases as she walks over sliding some pancakes onto her plate as I pour the coffee in two mugs.
I snort, pulling open the fridge and grabbing the carton of milk. “Yeah, even got your milk,” I tell her, placing the almond milk in front of her.
Daria grins as she grabs it, pouring some into her mug while I drink my coffee as it is. The milk, much like the makeup wipes from the night before, were bought specifically for her. She is here enough times to warrant the purchases but a part of me knows that even if she came around here once a damn year, I’d still have those things for her if she needed them.
The two of us have our breakfast sitting on the tall stools at the counter, the morning peaceful and unrushed. It’s far different than when she’s giving me coffee in her bedroom before she gets her daughter ready to go to her dad’s house, and I’m hiding in the room so Logan doesn’t see me. I have to say, I prefer this over having to have my morning coffee by myself while she deals with her daughter’s shitty father. But it is what it is, I guess.
I glance at Daria as she eats, her cheeks still pink and hair adorably messy. My gaze slides beyond her, toward the painting that’s hanging on my living room wall. It’s one of hers, a beautiful skyline of Chicago, one that I had commissioned from her months ago and paid full price despite her protesting that she would give me a discount. I threatened her that if she said something like that again, I would pay her double for the painting. She shouldn’t be undermining her work, even if it’s a painting for a friend. Daria is talented, an incredible painter, and I proudly have her painting up to remind her of it every time she comes to my home. And because I like looking at the painting, too.
Her passion for her art reminds me a lot of my brother. He wasn’t a painter, but he did enjoy music. Whether he was listening to it or playing it, Sean had a great appreciation for art in that kind of form, and before he got sick, he would always be playing his guitar or drum kit my parents had bought for him for his birthday and Christmas. Then he got sick, and the absence of music in the house had been deafening--because he was either in the hospital for long periods of time, or if he was home, he simply didn’t have the energy to play anything thanks to the chemo. It had been painful to watch, but I know it was a hundred times more painful for Sean to not be able to do something he loved so much.
My throat tightens as my grip on the fork does as well, thoughts of my brother making it difficult to swallow my food. I miss him, every fucking day. The weight of his loss is unbearable some days. An ache that settles deep in my bones.
The silence is suddenly broken by Daria’s phone going off, an alert popping up over her lock screen photo of Elaine. Her phone is just lying on the counter between our plates, and as Daria reaches for it, I see the notification that readsPAY WATER BILL!!!!
