Chapter 23
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
AFTER
There was something about a hotel bed. The almost-too-soft mattress.
The crisp white sheets. The way it envelops you and forces you to sink into it.
I used to love hotels as a kid. They felt like a little parallel universe, where time stretched and the rules bent.
No strict bedtime. No wake-up calls. We could eat junk food late at night and watch movies while our parents went out.
It always made me feel relaxed—like I could let my guard down.
A few months ago, waking up with Atty wrapped around me in that perfect white bed was just a daydream. Something I used to imagine us doing while traveling together. In that version of our lives, we’d be the parents going out at night—only we’d never leave our kids behind.
Now here we were.
I stirred awake, light filtering through the blinds we’d forgotten to close, still in yesterday’s clothes. After every joint in our bodies had locked from lying curled up on the floor, Atty had scooped me up, laid me down, pulled off my shoes, and tucked the covers around us. We hadn’t said a word.
But he was still here.
My head rested on his arm, his other draped over my waist beneath the blanket. His chest was pressed to my back. Little puffs of breath warmed the space behind my ear.
Everything in my head still felt scrambled, blurred at the edges. Sleep fuzz softened the mess, but last night’s memories still swirled, disjointed. They felt surreal—like they belonged to someone else.
Atty shifted behind me, his hold tightening briefly before he stretched and pulled away. He didn’t say anything, just kissed my cheek and crossed the room to shut the blinds.
After a quick trip to the bathroom, he slid back into bed. “Are you up?” His kisses on my neck were minty this time.
“Something like that.”
“Where’s your head at?”
The sheets rustled lightly as I inched closer to him. “I don’t know.”
“Want to go back to sleep? It’s still early.”
“What time is it?”
“Six.”
I shook my head. We didn’t have to be at the church until noon. Technically, we had time to sleep in. But I didn’t feel like closing my eyes again.
I rubbed my face against his arm. “I want to talk about last night.” The thought escaped before my mind could catch up and stop me.
“Are you sure? We don’t have to. Not right now. Not even later.” His breath was steady against my skin.
I smiled to myself. I loved that he gave me the out. And yeah, I was drained—completely wrecked, like I’d been hit by an emotional freight train—but I couldn’t keep him in the dark. Not after everything. He’d start making his own assumptions soon enough.
“I’m sure,” I said. “I’ll let you lead. Of all the crazy you witnessed last night, what do you want to start with?”
He didn’t laugh. Atty adjusted his position, resting his chin over my shoulder. “Your mom.”
The big one, right out of the gate.
I inhaled slowly, then let it out just as carefully. “Okay.”
Having anyone meet my mother had always been a minefield. Even Holly—who now refused to be in the same room as her—had loved her at first. My mom had a gift for charming people without even trying. She’d smile, toss her hair, and suddenly, they were besties. Or at least they thought they were.
The guys I went to school with used to comment on how hot she was. And anyone who knew about her past career would gush about how glamorous and fascinating her life seemed. I remember being a kid and loving the compliments that earned me. Before they turned bitter.
I wasn’t sure what Atty had taken away from last night.
He’d definitely looked overwhelmed, but she’d been nothing if not welcoming.
She hadn’t let a single slight slip out, and she’d literally built a shrine to me.
I braced myself to explain everything, expecting him to think I was being overdramatic.
I was unsure of where to start. “She’s…”
“There’s something off about her,” he said quickly.
I stiffened in his arms, caught off guard.
“I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I didn’t mean—”
“No, don’t stop.” I lifted from his arm, turning to face him, our heads resting on the same pillow. “What were you going to say?”
His eyes flicked between mine, searching. “You know I’m not great with people—never have been. Other kids weren’t exactly kind to me when I was little. Not until I outgrew everyone. Literally.”
His arm still lay draped across my waist. I traced slow, light patterns over his warm skin, waiting for him to continue.
“I used to try and figure out who the mean kids were before I ever let my guard down. I think I got pretty good at sensing it.”
My stomach tensed. My fingers stilled.
A small crease formed between his brows as his lips turned down, uncertain. “I don’t want to say something hurtful. She’s your mom, and I…”
“Say it,” I whispered, holding my breath.
Please say it. Please.
Atty licked his lips and met my gaze. “She makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.”
My sore eyes instantly filled with tears of relief.
It’s not in my head. It’s not just me.
“I’m sorry if that’s—”
I stopped his words with a gentle kiss.
Thank you.
“Don’t be sorry. Tell me what you felt, and then I’ll tell you everything. Okay?”
“She’s nice—she seemed nice. But it didn’t feel real. Like a hologram. And that room?” He shook his head. “What was that?”
“Okay.” I let out a shaky breath, forcing myself to go through with this.
“I don’t think I even know how to have this conversation.
I’ve done it before—more than a few times.
As a kid, it got dismissed, and then again later, growing up.
The last time was with Sam, and he was the first person who listened—who didn’t let me brush it off or make excuses. ”
The guilt came, as it always did. That creeping, tangled feeling of self-doubt. But I pushed through it.
“I second-guess myself with her constantly because she can be nice. She can act like your best friend when she wants to. I told you—I didn’t have my parents around much when I was little.
And I figured out early that she only acted that way if I played the part.
If I didn’t, she turned into someone else entirely. ”
Atty’s gaze didn’t waver. His eyes stayed sharp, locked on mine.
“I used to think she was just self-involved. Vain and young…that’s what my dad said. But there was this other side one no one else saw. The mom I got when it was just the two of us…” My voice faltered, the words catching in my throat.
“She wasn’t very nice,” Atty said for me.
I pressed my lips together and shook my head, holding back the emotion building in my chest. That was one way to put it.
“It’s like she can find exactly where to hurt you, you know? What’s going to scar the deepest.” My voice came out small, strained. I dragged a hand over my face.
Atty’s arm curled around my waist and tugged me closer.
“She started sending me to therapists when I was a kid. Told them I was too soft. That I cried too much. And I mean, she wasn’t wrong.
Most of what I remember from that time was feeling sad and alone, but I didn’t cry around her, Atty.
I was really careful about that, because she got so mad at me when I did. And even so, it was too much.
“I stopped telling her when I felt sick too. That annoyed her. Back then, everything revolved around Ilana—her recitals, her grades, her projects. Mom liked parading her around. But then I got older, and people started noticing me more.”
Atty shifted in place, listening patiently. There was something in his eyes that made it clear his thoughts were racing all over the place.
“There was this one dinner. A couple of her friends were over, and they told her I looked just like her. Said I should start going to castings. The next week, I had an appointment with an agency. The day after, I signed with them. It was exciting at first. Honestly, I think I liked having her attention. My dad was against it, but she made it sound fun. Told me stories about her own experiences. Showed me pictures. It felt like we were finally close—like friends.”
“When you were thirteen?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I don’t even know when it stopped feeling good.
She had a lot of expectations—how well I had to do, how fast I needed to become important.
I had to be friends with everybody and go along with what they wanted to be liked, and it started becoming overwhelming very quickly.
If I ever showed her that I was upset, she’d snap and tell me I was too sensitive.
That she had it way worse and could do three times the work I was doing. That’s when the fights started.
“I was tired of it—of her—always having an opinion about what I ate, how I looked, who I was friends with, how I posed. So I started pushing back. That made it so much worse. Way worse. She almost gets recharged when somebody fights back. It’s like she feeds off resistance—gets sharper, crueler, when someone pushes back. Especially if it’s just the two of us.”
I paused, my voice thinning. “The things she said still live in my head. And it’s not like everything was awful—I swear it wasn’t—but when it was bad, it was really, really bad.”
His lips pulled into another frown.
“I know I’ve told you about the meds and therapy.
I used to take stuff for anxiety. But it wasn’t until after my dad died that anyone actually diagnosed me with depressive episodes.
And even then, it wasn’t handled well. I didn’t realize it when I was younger, but the stuff with her—everything she said, everything she did—it messed me up. I struggled. A lot.”
“What about your dad? Or your sister?”