Chapter Thirty-Four – Dylan #2
And fuck, she’s right.
Before I can utter a word, she is already moving on, talking a mile a minute, as if she is trying to keep the thought from getting away.
“Will a certain beautiful, curly-haired lady be there to watch you at the charity event?” she queries with sparkling curiosity.
I can’t help it. I smirk. “Fawn? Hopefully.”
She observes me like a mother who knows the answer. “You like her, don’t you?”
“A lot,” I whisper. Then, before my fear gets the better of me, I add, “Actually . . . I’m seeing her now.”
She reacts quickly. Her whole face lights up, as if I just revealed the greatest news in the world. “Oh, my son,” she gasps with pleasure. “I knew it. I knew you were in love with her that day you both came here. You’ve never looked at any woman the way you look at her.”
The word love hits me like a ton of bricks. It takes my breath away. It stalls my mind. Love is big. It is risky. It is delicate. It is fucking frightening.
She raises an eyebrow, sizing me up. “Does she make you happy?”
My mind is in a vicious circle of fear and hope; it’s difficult to distinguish. Nonetheless, the answer is simple and honest. “In every way,” I say, my voice a little rough. “And I’m scared, Mom. I really want to make her happy. I don’t want to lose her.”
She leans in and places her frail hand gently on my cheek to support me.
“You won’t. And you know why I’m so sure?
Because the moment I laid eyes on you, all those years ago in that foster home .
. . I knew. I knew your heart was overflowing with love.
Even when you were angry with the world, all you ever wanted was to be loved.
That was never a weakness, Dylan. That was your greatest strength.
You’re such a strong boy, and you always have been.
And if you love her the way I know you can — with your whole heart — she’ll always be happy.
Loving like that is rare. It’s precious.
” Her tone is full of absolute assurance.
“Just always tell the truth. And never go to bed angry.”
Her thumb runs along my cheekbone, and for an instant, she is so vivid, so present, it’s painful.
“Thanks, Mom,” I manage finally, the words sticking in my throat. I lean in to kiss the back of her hand, holding it there a moment longer than necessary.
My heart — my entire self — is whole only because of her. She shaped me into who I am.
Whatever she’s about to say, I don’t hear it. My eyes are fixed on the small crimson drop sliding toward her lip.
Quickly, I reach for a tissue from the table without thinking, pressing it softly against her face. “Whoa there,” I say softly. “Your nose is bleeding.”
She touches the area under her nose, looks at the blood on her finger, then lets out a deep sigh. “Oh no. Not again.”
Again?
My chest tightens at the word.
Before I can try to talk to her, a nurse rushes up to her side, already wearing her gloves. “Oh, Miss Mary, let’s get you taken care of,” she says with a warm smile.
Backing away slowly, I observe every movement, every feature on my mother’s face. She appears to be relaxed — too relaxed, which scares me more.
Another nurse approaches. “Mr. Crawley, we’ve been hoping to speak with you about medication changes.”
I don’t care about formalities right now. “What does my mom mean again? Is she okay?”
“Her blood pressure is running a little high. We’ve started her on some medication to lower it. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Relief washes over me, but it’s fleeting, mixed with irritation. “Well,” I say, my voice harsher than I intend, “next time, I would like to be told.”
The nurse nods, and it’s evident she understands. “Mr. Crawley, I completely understand. Of course, in the future, we will. We’re very sorry.”
I look back at my mother while the nurse is cleaning her up. She catches my eye and sends me a small apologetic smile — as if she thinks she is the one who caused all of this.
And fuck, I wish I could take all her worries away.
The nurses step back, leaving us in a silence that seems to weigh more than any of the noise.
“Hey, you okay, Mom?” I ask softly.
“Oh yeah, I’m fine,” she says, shrugging her shoulders, but then — a flicker in her eyes. A pause. A hesitation. As if she is trying to pinpoint me, trying to connect my face to a memory that refuses to fall into place. It’s like the nosebleed made her forget everything we just spoke about.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” she says politely, “but I would like to return to my room, please. I’m very tired.”
“Sure,” I quickly answer, trying to smile. “Can I get a hug before I go?”
She hesitates a beat too long. Then, she reaches for me, a little uncertain but willing, and I step into her embrace, holding her gingerly, as if she might disappear if I squeeze too hard. I breathe her in — clean cotton and Chanel No. 5.
I hold on to the smell like a lifeline, pressing my cheek into her hair, trying to embed this moment into all the places that might need it later. She pats me on the back once, softly, before pulling away.
A nurse guides her into the hallway.
Staying in place, I watch her walk away, my chest heavy with the things I never got to say.
“I love you, Mommy,” I whisper under my breath.
And even if she doesn’t hear it, I hope somehow she feels it.