Chapter 24
BABS
Sunday stretches into Wednesday, and still, nothing has happened. Not a single word from Dominic despite the multitude of voicemails I’ve left and text messages I’ve sent. His silence is his trademark. He only calls when he needs something. That’s dwindled to never now.
It’s always me reaching out to him. That has been the case for years now. I hate it. Yet I respect his need for space and independence. I needed to know if we would have any sort of relationship.
I still hold out hope that Violette will come back home. One day, anyway. But sitting in this large estate with more rooms than a boutique hotel, I’m lonely and a bit aimless. All things I shared with Hollister.
In the complete silence of my son, Hollister has more than made up for it with a litany of missed calls that have turned into emotional voicemails and long text messages full of his regrets, guilt, and glimmers of hope.
I listen to them all. Read every word. My vision usually blurs, and my gut swims with guilt for being so selfish. If Hollister were older and not my son’s best friend, I’d return his calls. Not let the silence grow like an unwanted weed in a beautiful garden.
But neither of those things is reality, so I relisten and reread, cherishing every moment we shared. When I was free and open to thinking about myself. To be in the moment, living life to its fullest. But now, I deserve the silence and the sadness. Putting one young man over another.
Making the wrong choice out of selfish need and desire. I broke the boy I swore to protect by falling for someone who could never be with me.
My tea grows cold beside me. The open book in my lap has been on the same page for the last several minutes as my thoughts drift.
The sun hangs low in the sky. Casting golden slats through the plantation shutters across the hand-painted silk wallpaper.
The clock on the mantle chimes softly in the quiet room until a different sound interrupts it.
A rumble.
Deep and familiar. An engine growls up the street, revving louder as it gets closer. Intentionally obnoxious. The rumble grows louder. Hope springs into my chest. Unable to remember the last time, Dominic was at my home.
My heart pounds, and the ache in my heart loosens a fraction.
I set the book next to my tea, stand, and walk to the window.
The silk curtains are cool against my fingers as I pull them back, revealing the sprawling front lawn.
The black motorcycle roars past the front gate and up the driveway, the rider hidden behind a tinted helmet visor. But I know it’s him.
Then another rider on a red bike. The rumbling engine turns into a duel of vibrations felt through the windows of my home.
My breath stops.
Hollister is here.
Both of them are here. I’m scared and nervous. Why are they here? Why are they together? Will this be another confrontation like the one at the hospital?
I can’t keep them apart like their friends did.
Of course, I have the staff to keep me safe, but who will protect them from each other?
Swirling worries keep my excitement suppressed.
My gaze tracks them as they take off their helmets, leaving them with their bikes.
I study every motion and action, but with their backs to me as they talk, I can’t tell much.
My heart is pounding so hard that my hand covers my chest. Dragging in several calming breaths and waiting in anticipation.
If Dominic came alone, I wouldn’t be as concerned.
But the two of them together are explosive.
They turn toward the house, eating up the stamped concrete with long strides.
I move back from the window, out of view, to collect myself.
The doorbell I expect to chime doesn’t. Instead, he stomps through the front door with a casualness that speaks to him living here.
As if he feels welcome and entitled enough to come in and not wait for the staff to open the door for him.
It’s a small action. Probably insignificant to him, yet it means a lot to me.
He views my home as his. Something he’s never done before.
“Mom?”
Mom.
Not mother.
Not Babs when in front of others. No, this time, he said Mom.
I heard it, and everything about this is giving me hope, which will break my heart if this goes the same way as it did on Sunday.
I can’t make out the words of my staff member, but his low murmur precedes the heavy footsteps stomping my way.
It’s the best sound I’ve heard in years.
I turn toward them, and when they appear, my smile falls.
“Oh no.”
The hand at my chest moves to my throat. Fingers twisting with my pearls. Hollister’s gaze tracks my movement, and he frowns. His necklace is tucked away with my memories of this weekend, not to see the light of day for a long time.
“What happened? Was there another accident?”
They step further into the room, shifting the energy instantly. Light and dark. Grumpy and dolden. The dichotomy between the two is vast. Night and day.
Dominic’s eyes scan the space like a security sweep. Memorizing the position of the windows, the chairs, and the exits. It’s not just a habit. It’s defense. Survival. He doesn’t look at me yet.
Hollister does.
His gaze collides with mine, brimming with emotion so unfiltered it cuts deep. He’s holding back and standing behind Dominic like a silent wall of remorse and restraint. His hands curled into fists. Like he’s afraid to breathe the wrong way. Afraid to speak before he’s allowed.
His eye is rimmed in black and purple, looking painful, and I visibly flinch. There’s a cut in his brow that could use stitches, but he leaves it open to heal. It will scar if unattended to.
Dominic’s stare finally lands on me. It’s sharp, assessing.
Not with pure, unadulterated hatred like before, but with something harder to describe.
He has a cut on his lip, angry and swollen.
His cheek is ruby red and puffy with a cut in the center.
It also needs stitches, yet I know he won’t allow me to get the family doctor over here to take care of both of them.
“Just working out some shit.”
I take a step forward, throat tight, my fingers still wrapped around my pearls. Both eyes remain on me. Watching and waiting.
It’s obvious this is because of their fight the other night. Or maybe they fought again.
“I can call the doctor to—"
“Not important.”
He crosses the room and collapses into one of my Fauteuil chairs flanking the fireplace. The delicate wood groans from the action. Hollister takes a more gingerly approach, sitting on the edge as if he knows how much it costs or cares not to destroy it.
Dominic has always been hard on things. Furniture, décor, mothers, and feelings. I should expect this, and yet his roughness still takes me back.
“Do you want some tea or . . .” My gaze sweeps over both, knowing they could use something stronger. “A whiskey? Beer?”
Hollister looks at Dom, taking his lead from him. I remember him preferring whiskey over beer. When my son shakes his head, Hollister leans back in his chair, crossing one ankle over the other knee. Settling in.
“I didn’t come to hang out. I came to understand what the fuc—” he stops himself with a heavy breath.
A look is exchanged between the two of them. I’m unsure what it means. I move to sit opposite him. My fingers grip the edge of the carved wood armchair.
“My friend is badly hurt. And another guy, Diego, said some things that made sense, so I’m here. With this asshole.”
Hollister doesn’t react, only looks away. Guilt. I know. I feel it too.
“I’ve been praying for your friend.”
I recognize the man in front of me, but he’s not the little boy I once knew.
The one I used to read bedtime stories to.
The one who would ask impossible questions about the universe before he even lost all his baby teeth.
The one that used to curl into my lap, asking me to hold him tighter because the world made too much noise.
That was before we knew. Before the experts warned me that I won’t keep pace with his intelligence. I need to get him into an environment for learning. One that catered to him better than I could. Far better than his absent father was willing to do.
“Emilio,” he says, low with a cloud of emotion.
I nod. A breath leaves my chest as I recite a short prayer for healing and recovery in my mind. He leans forward, arms braced on his thighs, head bowed for a second before lifting again.
“I’m not here to make you feel bad,” he says, the same dark eyes as mine, locking on me. ”Or maybe I am. I don’t fu . . . I don’t know anymore. But Sunday was a fu . . . shit this not cussing is hard.”
I tilt my head, wondering where that’s coming from. He’s cursed even in his young teenage years. I have always hated it, but some therapist along the way said to allow him to use it. It helped him articulate his feelings when his brain was whirling faster than he could keep up with.
I thought it was a habit he would outgrow, but it only got worse. Eventually, I grew numb to his frequent use, giving up any hope that it would ever change.
“I didn’t say anything about your use of profanity.”
“Marlowe did. See bitched me out good for how I talked to you.”
I inhale slowly, not knowing what to do with that information. Naturally, I appreciate her curbing his terrible language, especially when aimed at me. Yet, I don’t dare side with her. This situation is far too unstable for that.
“It’s bullshit how you talk to her. So disrespectful, man,” Hollister adds in my place. Dom glares at him over the tip of his shoulder. The tension builds between them.
“It’s very hurtful, I will say that.”
My comment draws his attention back to me. A grumble of something under his breath before he shifts, moving his chair away from his friend. It’s childish, and I refrain from showing any emotion, but Hollister smirks.
“Yeah, well.”