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I’m practically knocked backward as my mom throws herself into my arms and starts sobbing. I’m a good judge of emotions, and there’s nothing fake about the tears. She trembles hard as she cries. “I’m so fucking scared. I know how stupid it was getting involved in this, but that’s me… I’ve made stupid choices my entire life.” She lifts her head, stares at me with tearstained cheeks. “Look at what I did to my own daughter. I’m the worst human being in the world to have walked away from someone as precious as you and now here I am, asking you to give me support when I could never give it to you. You should kick me out of your house right now and lock the door. You don’t deserve what I’m asking of you. You have to push me away, Stevie, because I’m too weak-willed and will keep coming back, asking for help I don’t deserve.”
Every single word is like a knife jabbing into my heart. As much as I’m pissed at her, I’m equally brokenhearted for her.
My mom has incredibly deep flaws and has made horrible choices, but she is a human being in pain, and I don’t want her to be scared.
I pull her back into my arms and make a promise I have no idea how I’ll keep. “I’ll get the money somehow. I’ll help you out and keep you safe. I swear it.”
?
I didn’t rush my mom out but let her sob through her fears. Once I made the promise, she settled and didn’t feel the need to throw ideas at me anymore.
She’s gone now, and I slump down on my couch, giving a baleful look at my computer. I should jump back into my end-of-month reconciliations, but my mind is too preoccupied.
Instead, I lean over and grab my journal, opening it up to the last page I’d written on.
I read the last entry.
December 6, 7:20 a.m.: Hendrix called this morning. Woke me up from a sound sleep. He told me he was going to call and hinted it might be early. Despite getting to sleep around three, I was invigorated when I answered his call. He was so sweet. Just wanted to wish me a good morning and then demanded I get more rest. Yeah, that didn’t happen, so here I am sipping coffee and wondering how I got so lucky to hook up with such a sweet guy. I’ll see him tomorrow and to say I’m excited is an understatement.
I flip to the prior entry that chronicles his call after the first Nashville game.
And the one before that, which was our second date. I didn’t focus so much on the date as I did the sex, which was intense. My cheeks heat as I read through the play-by-play.
Damn, Hendrix pushes all my buttons in the right way, and I found myself last night… as well as I’ll find myself tonight… using my toys to memories of this entry.
I flip back to the note after the first time we had sex. For that entry, I didn’t focus on the sex but rather on our talk after. The physical intimacy busted any constraints either of us might have had about opening up to each other. I shared more about my mother, and he opened his heart about Rachel and the teammates he’d lost.
He made me think about the frailty of life and about making the most of our opportunities. I read the entire entry again to take me back to that connection we made.
December 3, 8:22 a.m.: I had sex with Hendrix. I’d like to blame it on the knee-wobbling kiss he gave me at the bar, but I had been primed since our first conversation in the storeroom. The sex was mind-bending, but I want to get down my thoughts about the man himself. Our lives don’t exactly parallel each other, but we’ve both suffered losses, and the ways in which we’ve handled them have similarities. Those losses have shaped the values by which we live, and that’s where we’re most alike. Hendrix didn’t fully appreciate the frailty of life after his sister Rachel died. He was a kid and he grieved, but he bounced back. It wasn’t until an entire plane full of his friends went down that he understood. The tragedy made him realize—coupled with therapy with a man named Pete—he had to live more robustly. So, when he told me there was nothing wrong with me for attempting to build something with my mom, I listened to him. I can’t wait around for things with her to be perfect. I have to make the effort now.
I read the last line one more time. I have to make the effort now.
I click on my pen, my eyes drifting to the flowers. My other hand comes up and plays with the nine-ball pendant at my throat. I should write about that, and maybe I will later, but I need to purge some dark feelings about the encounter with my mom.
