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Even after Hunter got through rehab and came out the other end better, wise, stronger, I didn’t see it.
Hell, yesterday morning I didn’t see it.
But something changed.
I can’t do this anymore.
I can’t survive another disappointment.
I can’t give my heart to someone who will tear it to shreds.
“The lawyer thinks she might get a deal. Rehab for dropped charges. But her blood alcohol was over twice the legal limit. That’s the kind of thing—”
“I know.”
“Not how I wanted this to go.”
For once we agree.
I try to think up some response that will articulate how much this sucks, but I don’t have anything.
Somehow, Chase gets it.
He explains about the lawyer, and the deal, and the details of the accident.
It was Mom’s fault.
She could have killed herself.
She could have killed someone else.
She could have killed someone, and she didn’t fucking care.
This is what happens when I’m not around to clean up her mess.
I can’t be around every time.
Not if I want to live my life.
Fuck, even if I’m willing to drop everything whenever she calls, I’ll miss things. Be in an appointment or asleep or with Quinn.
Or…
Fuck, I have no idea if that’s happening.
If we’re happening.
I listen to Chase for a while.
Eventually, Hunter shows up with coffee from the chain across the street. He and Chase discuss Mom’s possible rehab with their usual awkwardness.
Chase is still pissed at Hunter.
Hunter is still waiting for forgiveness.
It would be pathetic if it wasn’t so necessary.
I focus on my coffee, but it doesn’t have any taste.
I let them talk. Watch them struggle to form a plan. There’s too much neither of them is saying.
But that’s the Keating way at this point.
Never mention Mom’s problem.
Never mention Chase’s unwillingness to forgive.
Or Hunter’s past.
Or my inability to face the fucking truth.
This is where I got it.
But I can’t do it anymore.
After a while, they turn to me. Invite me to join their pow-wow.
“Dad’s in the room,” Chase says. “We’ve talked.”
“Wes, I know you want the best for Mom,” Hunter says.
“We’re doing this with or without you,” Chase says.
Hunter shoots him a look. You have to pull that card now?
Chase nods obviously, I do. I thought you’d understand that after all the shit you pulled. “This is it, Wes. If she can’t clean up her shit after this…”
He’s right.
I hate it, but he’s right.
“Okay.” I swallow hard.
Hunter’s eyes go wide.
Chase’s fix on mine. “You sure, Wes?”
“Yeah.” My gaze goes to the tile floor. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“You don’t have to.” Hunter pulls me into a hug. Pats my back.
It should feel better.
Like this is going to be okay.
But it doesn’t.
It feels like everything is fucked.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Quinn
Roman Holiday fails to fill the hole in my gut.
I give up after half an hour. Go straight to the big guns. English breakfast with extra honey. Toast and strawberry jam. Casablanca.
It helps.
But not enough.
My thoughts stay on Wes. On the hurt in his blue eyes, the frustration in his brow, the frown on his soft lips.
I want to fix this. To soothe him. To help him.
His mom…
I can’t even imagine.
I try to ignore my cell. To convince myself to stay far, far away. To keep my hands busy by packing things I won’t need for the next week and a half.
I’m leaving in ten days.
This is a time to pull back, not to move forward.
But my heart won’t listen to reason.
Around the time the TV sings with As Time Goes By, I pick up my cell and I text Wes.
Quinn: Are you okay?
He doesn’t respond, but I still feel better.
I want him to know I care.
And I do care.
I care way too fucking much.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Wes
After dinner, the doctor gives us the clear to visit Mom.
She looks up from her hospital bed with a fuzzy gaze.
She’s high.
What fucking irony.
Land yourself in the hospital for driving drunk and they pump you with morphine.
The sad thing is, her out of it expression is the most familiar thing about her.
She’s not wearing makeup or designer garb.
She’s in a light blue hospital gown far too big for her small frame.
She’s pale.
Frail.
Tiny.
It’s so clear right now.
She doesn’t give a fuck.
Did she ever give a fuck?
I can’t remember a time when my mom was sober.
Only an always full glass of wine between her fingers.
Dad goes right to her. He holds her hand. Stares into her eyes the way only married people can.
More rich irony.
A few weeks ago, he was consulting with a divorce attorney. Now, he’s holding her hand.
It’s bullshit. He’s still going to pull the trigger.
But I guess I get the logic. Why kick a woman when she’s down?
“Mom, we have to talk.” Chase’s voice is calm. Steady.
Usually, that annoys me.
Right now, it helps.
It really fucking helps.
She looks up at him like she can’t believe he’s here. “This is a misunderstanding.”
His eyes narrow.
Hunter tries to jump in.
But I stop him. “It’s not.”
