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Mom’s eyes widen. “Jeremy…you can’t honestly believe that’s all you are to him.”
I huff a bitter laugh. “Whether he knows it or not, that’s exactly what I’ve become.” I meet her tightened, reddened gaze. “The Mason I knew and loved died with her. I see that now.”
Her face bunches, eyes watering. “Sweet boy…”
I shrug. “It is what it is. At least now I can…finally accept that, and grieve them both, and-and move on with my life. Start over.” For real this time.
Mom’s eyes slide shut and a tear skates down her cheek. She doesn’t make any move to brush it away. She wears her pain stoicly. Leaning forward, she wraps me in a hug once more.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, my voice quivering. “It’ll be okay.”
“It’s not though,” she says. “And it’s okay to acknowledge that. It’s okay to feel it, bubs.”
Teeth clenched, I squeeze my eyes shut.
“You can’t keep bottling it up. It’ll eat you alive.” She pulls back, and eyes me pointedly. “It’s already eating you alive. When is the last time you ate? Showered? Left your apartment?”
Eyes burning, I shrug. I don’t know.
She sighs, reaches up, and brushes her thumbs under my eyes, even though there’s nothing there for her to swipe away.
“You go get washed up and…” She looks around, frowning. “Hopefully find some clean clothes. I’ll wait for you in the living room, and we’ll go get something to eat.”
Standing up, she musses my hair just like she’s done since I was little.
When she reaches the door, she gives me a small smile. “It won’t kill you to let go, even if it feels like it.” She pauses meaningfully. “But it will kill you if you keep it all inside.”
She goes to turn, when I stop her with my next words.
“What happens after?”
Meeting my gaze, she smiles softly, sadly. “You keep going.”
And with that, she disappears into the living room, shutting the door behind her.
And to an empty room, I say, “What if there’s nothing left?”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
I wake up in my bed alone, without having any recollection of how I got here.
Groaning, I sit up, and clutch my throbbing head in my hands.
Feels like someone’s squeezing it between a bench vise.
There’s a rustle of fabric, and a low thud. Cracking my eyes open, I lift my head, peering through slits at the shape that takes form in my bleary vision across the room.
“Shawn?”
He says nothing.
“Why are you…” my voice trails off as memories from last night barrel through me with the force of a goddamn freight train.
Oh fuck.
“I got drunk.”
Obviously, the thumping in my head seems to say.
