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“Is it like the car? You’re holding on to it out of some twisted affection?”
She sips more whiskey, then hands the bottle back to me. “Moving’s a hassle.”
I snort.
“And it feels important to wake up every morning and look at the place where I thought I was going to die. To wake up and be grateful that I didn’t.”
I still, the bottle halfway to my lips. Shock spreads slowly. We’ve gone eighteen years without mentioning that day. Part of me assumed that meant we would never discuss it.
My mom exhales. “I’m sorry, Will. I know it’ll never be enough, but I am. I was in a dark place before your father left, and I went to an even darker place after he did. I made a mistake—a big, selfish one. You boys were so young, and I was so scared, and I…I’ve never forgotten the look on your face in the hospital. Never forgiven myself for how I pulled you into that dark place too. I thought staying, living, would show you that I knew what a mistake I’d made. That it would fade over time. Shrink in size. But it’s always stayed between us, and I’m sorry about that too. I should have been braver. Should have at least asked if you wanted to talk about it instead of pretending it never happened.”
My whole life, I’ve considered myself more similar to my dad. Our self-destructive personalities, our selfishness. But for the first time, I consider I might be more like my mom. Because I’ve made mistakes. Big ones. And I’ve regretted them. I’ve tried to make up for them.
My dad never did that. He was so self-centered he probably thought going to prison was some personal vendetta against him, and he did the opposite of asking for forgiveness after getting released.
“I don’t know what to say,” I admit.
This has been a mindfuck of a day, to put it mildly. It feels like I’ve been spun around in a circle and the whiskey isn’t helping.
“You don’t have to say anything, honey. I just needed you to hear it.”
I nod a couple of times. Blow out a long breath. Then, I reach out and grab my mom’s hand, squeezing it three times. It was our secret language when I was little, when my dad was yelling or raging. A quick, I love you, or, It’ll be okay, or, Do not worry. It’s why I tap my thigh three times before every shot.
It calms me, cuts through the noise, no matter what else is going on.
She squeezes my hand three times back.
“I’m glad—” I clear my throat. “I’m really glad you woke up, Mom.”
There’s a quiet sniffle, and I know she’s crying. I keep my eyes forward, at the closed door of the garage, giving her a little privacy. Letting her have a moment. Hating the sight of this garage a little less.
Because it feels like I just got some small piece of my childhood—of my mom—back.
THIRTY-THREE
SOPHIA
There’s a knock as I’m pouring coffee into a travel cup.
“Coming!” I call out, capping the cup, licking some creamer off my thumb, and then heading for the door.
Will is standing in the hallway, an exhausted expression on his face and a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
I still the second I see him, the fact that he’s actually here taking a moment to sink in.
“Hey.” My voice comes out funny, so I quickly clear my throat.
“You got bangs.”
“Yeah.” I finger the shorter strands covering my forehead. “Wanted to try something different. What–what do you think?”
“You always look gorgeous, Sophia.”
My heart does a strange pitter-patter when I register the sincerity in his voice. He sounds so tired, but sincere.
“Can I come in?”
“You don’t usually ask for permission.” I step aside so he can, shutting the door behind him.
