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“Logan?” My name on her lips is a whispered question. I was right; she came to me wanting to talk. I’m glad because there’s still so much between us that’s gone unsaid.
“Yes, Sunshine.” She looks up at me, smiling at my use of the nickname. I trace a thumb across her bottom lip, still pink and swollen from our kisses.
She shifts in my arms until she’s sitting up higher and able to look into my eyes. “You know when you said the other night that you thought finding my mother might help me to understand what happened. What exactly did you mean?”
“Well … don’t you have questions about what happened?” I ask in response. A heaviness weighs me down, pushing me further into the sofa cushions. My response sounds hopelessly inadequate even to my own ears, and Allie’s sigh shows her disappointment. It’s not really an answer to her question, more a deflection. Over the years I’ve mastered the art of deflecting difficult questions by asking another. It annoys the hell out of my brothers, who say I should have gone into politics where it would be more useful rather than finance.
Choosing my words carefully, I begin to explain, “What I mean is … how do we know what your mother was thinking at that time. We only have what the media wrote. You were too young, and your grandparents have passed. If we exclude your father, then your mother is the only person who knows what really happened.” Allie shifts in my arms, loosening her hold.
I understand the topic of her mother is uncomfortable, especially when it’s very close to my own experience. But maybe knowing will bring her some closure.
She appears to get lost in her head for a few moments before looking up at me again. “I just don’t know if I want to find out though.” It’s a truth that she seems reluctant to share, yet she hands it to me with an open heart. She’s so much braver than I am.
Letting her head drop back to my chest, she murmurs, “Will you tell me about your mother?”
My heart stops, literally, and when it restarts, it gallops at a frightening pace. I never talk about my mother and now within a matter of weeks, I’ve been forced to open up the old wound. First with my brothers and now with Allie.
My mother leaving us left a deep, scab-encrusted wound that with the slightest of bumps bleeds again. But if Allie can share her story with me, she deserves the same trust. For the first time in my life, I need to shed some light on the dark sorrow locked in my heart. Trusting that the woman I love will not use this weakness against me.
Fuck, I do love Allie. And the truth strikes me like a bolt of lightning directly hitting my chest. My body tenses as heat sizzles through every nerve ending.
Allie lifts her head, concern furrowing her brow. “Are you okay, Logan?” I nearly laugh out loud at the question, and instead of answering, I just nod. I’m not sure I’m ready to tell her how I feel yet, though rather than the thought scaring me, my pulse and heartbeat calm with the new knowledge. The stress of seconds ago falls away. The heaviness replaced with peacefulness.
With a shuddering deep breath, I open my heart to Allie and begin to share my own story.
“It was the start of the summer holidays; we’d only been in Southampton for a few days and Dad had returned that morning to the city for work. There’d been a huge argument between my parents the night before. Nothing unusual, but I remember running into Hunter’s room. We always gathered there when they fought; my mother liked to throw things when she got angry.”
Allie’s hand begins a slow glide over my chest and the tension that was building again slips away.
“Anyway, she asked us to come downstairs, and when Mother called it was always best to respond immediately. I remember being annoyed because I was in the middle of doing a jigsaw puzzle. Still, I followed my brothers. Hunter always took the lead, Blake at his shoulder and me tucked in behind them.”
I briefly close my eyes on the images of how my older brothers protected me. It has the ability to bring me to my knees. And I shake my head, slotting the memories back into the correct sequence.
“She was standing at the bottom of the staircase with a large suitcase beside her. She told us she had to return to the city and that we’d be staying in Southampton with the nanny. I was glad we didn’t have to go with her because summers in the Hamptons with my brothers were fun. She gave each of us a quick hug, a rare moment of affection, and then left. That was the last time I saw her.”
Allie’s hand rises from my chest to stroke along my jawline. “Oh, Logan. How old were you?”
“Five. Hunter was ten and Blake was eight. Hunter cried waving her off and at the time I didn’t understand why. But he knew she was leaving for good. I don’t get how a parent can just walk away from their own children like that.”
“Me either,” she agrees, her voice cracking on the words before continuing in a stronger voice, “When did you realize she wasn’t coming back?”
The question has me thinking about the similarities in our history. I’m sure she sees it too.
“The next day when Dad arrived, he gathered us together on the sofa. I don’t remember what he said, all that sticks in my memory was Hunter screaming at him and Blake crying. I guess I didn’t really get what was going on. For more than a year I expected her to walk back through the door. I told myself she had just gone on holidays with her friends, and she’d come back when she was done.”
Allie nods her head. “I remember telling myself the same thing when my mom left.” A single tear spills down her cheek and she brushes it away angrily. It must have been so much harder in her case, being old enough to know that your mother had chosen to leave you behind. I’m glad now that I was too young.
“I guess it helped having your brothers and later Ada and Katie,” she murmurs.
“Mmm. When Dad announced he was marrying Ada a couple of years later, it was easy to adjust to a new mom. I barely remembered mine and Ada filled our home with a love we’d not experienced before.”
“You were lucky to have Ada. Her capacity for love extended to me too. Did you ever find out why your mother left?”
“Yes. When I was a teenager, I finally got brave enough to ask my dad.”
“And?” she prompts gently.
“And he said it was because she wanted more money.” Allie’s eyes widen. I don’t blame her because the billionaire lifestyle we enjoy now makes it hard to imagine that wasn’t enough. “You see, back then a lot of Dad’s wealth was tied up in the publishing company or family property. We were rich on paper but not in disposable cash.”
