Chapter 12 Willow #2
I’m humming along to a Beyoncé song as I pull up to a stoplight, but when I glance out the window, the notes die in my throat.
Oh my god.
At first, I think I must be seeing things, but even after I blink, the sight before me doesn’t change.
Misty is sprawled out on the bench of a nearby bus stop. My adoptive mother looks half out of it, slumped over and alone.
Someone behind me honks, and I jump, startled. I look up to find that the light turned green while I was distracted.
“This isn’t your problem, Willow,” I mutter under my breath, taking my foot off the brake and driving through the intersection.
“She’s not your problem anymore. You’ve saved her so many times, and for what?
For her to steal from you and lie to you and treat you like dirt. You don’t need that anymore.”
My fingers curl tighter around the steering wheel as a little voice in the back of my head whispers, But she’s still your mom.
I hate that. I hate that I can’t ignore it.
That I can’t ignore her.
She probably wouldn’t help me if I was in that situation, but I can’t just leave her there to get hurt or worse.
I make a U-turn at the next intersection and drive back to where I saw her. She’s still slouched on the bench, and I pull into the bus lane and hop out quickly.
“Mom? Mom. Misty!” Calling her name gets no response, and I hurry over to her, putting a hand on her shoulder to try to shake her awake.
“…the hell?” she finally slurs, blinking and looking up at me. “Willow? That you?”
“Yes. Come on, you can’t stay here.”
“I can stay wherever the fuck I want. You’re not…” She trails off, sliding down a little more on the seat, almost dumping herself onto the sidewalk.
I roll my eyes and get a grip under her arm, managing to haul her up from the bench and toward my car. She stumbles, clearly strung out on something and not capable of walking on her own, but with a little help, she manages to get into the passenger seat in one piece.
I breathe a sigh of relief once the car doors are closed and we’re on our way, and instead of heading back to my apartment, I head in the direction of Misty’s house.
Maybe the walk to the car snapped her out of her high a little, because she seems more alert as I drive. She glances around at the car we’re in, petting the leather seats and pulling out cup holders.
“This is fancy,” she murmurs. She jabs at a couple of buttons on her door. “Real fucking fancy. Where did you get it?”
I chew on my bottom lip, trying to decide what to tell her. It’s been weeks since we’ve talked, so she has no idea what’s been going on in my life—and I’m not sure I want her to know, to be honest.
“It was a gift,” I hedge, trying to keep my answer vague.
Misty’s eyebrows shoot up toward the roots that are showing at her hairline. “You get yourself a sugar daddy or something?”
“No,” I shoot back, my voice sharper than I mean for it to be. “I… my grandmother got it for me.”
“You don’t have a fucking grandmother. I’m the only one you’ve got.” She leans her head against the headrest, huffing out a breath.
I shake my head. “Not anymore. She found me, and she’s back in my life.”
When I glance over at Misty, she’s staring right back at me, her eyes wide. Clearly, she wasn’t expecting that.
“You really found someone in your family?”
I nod. “Yeah. It was a surprise to both of us. But we’ve been meeting and talking and getting to know each other.”
I’m definitely not going to mention that we met because I was in the hospital after getting kidnapped. That’s so much more than Misty needs to know.
“And she’s been buying you stuff,” my mom murmurs, her eyelids drooping again. She runs her hand along the buttery leather of her seat. “She must be doing pretty well for herself.”
“I guess,” I reply, still trying to avoid revealing too much. “I think she just wants to help me. Since she missed out on most of my life.”
Luckily, we pull up in front of Misty’s house before she can ask too many more questions. She doesn’t move to get out of the passenger seat, and I have to help her out, draping one of her arms over my shoulders. She dips and sways as we walk, nearly tripping over the curb as we head up the drive.
“Do you have your keys?” I ask her, and she mumbles something, patting her pockets.
With a sigh, I dig out my own, trying not to think too hard about the fact that one of the reasons I kept the key to her house on my key ring was because of moments like this.
We get inside, and of course the place is a mess. My adoptive mother never did care too much for chores and cleaning up, and more often than not, I was the one who broke down and did it.
“Can you get up the stairs on your own?” I ask her.
“I can try,” she says, heading in that direction. There’s a lot of muted cursing, and I sigh and head into the kitchen to get her some water.
The sink is overflowing with dishes, and I have to dig through the cabinets to find a clean cup to fill with water from the tap. Once I have it, I go upstairs, finding Misty sitting on the floor in front of her bed instead of in it.
It’s a struggle to get her up and out of enough of her clothes that she’ll be able to sleep, and then another battle to get her to drink the water.
“You look good,” she murmurs as I finally set down the empty cup, reaching out to touch my hair. “Better than you used to.”
“I guess I have time for myself now,” I say. Neither of us mentions that Misty was part of the reason I didn’t have time for myself before.
“You’re somebody now. Classy. Grown up.”
I shrug, chuckling softly. “I guess so. I’m even going to the opening of the new wing at the modern art museum soon. Look at me go.”
The words are laced with a bit of sarcasm, but I realize as I speak that I sort of mean it. The Willow who lived with Misty and spent all her time working and trying to escape this life would never have been able to do something like that.
To my surprise, Misty starts to tear up as she settles into bed. “That’s what you should’ve had from the start. Nice cars. Art museums and stuff. Not this. I was a bad mom to you.”
It seems different from the usual love bombing she used to do, trying to act like she was a good parent before or after she fucked me over. This seems… genuine.
Which is weird for her.
“Mom…”
She shakes her head, cutting me off.
“No, I was. I was shit. I just want what’s best for you, you know? You’re smart. Smarter than me, that’s for damned sure. If this lady—your grandmother—if she can help you, then you deserve that. I’m glad you found her.”
My heart aches to hear her say all of that.
Despite everything she’s put me through over the years, there’s a part of me that still loves her.
That will probably always love her. For the longest time, she was all I had.
And even with how hard our lives were sometimes, it was better than having nothing.
“You did your best,” I tell her.
“Maybe, maybe not.” She reaches up again and brushes a hand through my hair. “But you were always there. You’re a good kid, and I love you for that.”
I blink back sudden tears, swallowing the lump in my throat. I don’t even know if I remember the last time my mom told me she loved me. Not sincerely, anyway.
Before I can say anything, her hand is falling away, and she turns her face against the pillows, her breathing evening out as she falls asleep.
I stand there for a bit, watching her, and then let myself out of the house and get back in my car.
It’s a quiet drive back to my place, and when I get there, I make myself a cup of tea and settle on the couch with the cheesecake Olivia sent me home with.
I can’t stop thinking about my mom and the way she looked at me. The tears in her eyes and the things she said are still fresh in my mind, and my emotions are churning.
There have been so many times when I told myself I was done with her, done putting up with being walked all over and done letting her use me.
But every time, I came back when she needed me.
I never thought she understood that she was a bad parent, especially with the way she held it over my head that she was all I had in the world.
I can’t completely forgive her for everything, but I do love her.
Does that make me a fool? Does it make me weak?
The cheesecake feels dry in my throat as I stare at the TV, turning things over and over in my mind. I remember having a conversation with Victor about being used by people who are supposed to love you and take care of you, and before I can think better of it, I’m reaching for my phone.
I know I shouldn’t talk to him, and I definitely shouldn’t be texting him about personal stuff, but… I can’t help it.
ME: Do you think it’s possible to love someone when you know they’re not good for you?
I send the message off, biting my lip. Maybe he’ll ignore it. Maybe it’s a dumb question, the kind that will just irritate his analytical mind.
But my phone buzzes in my hand a few seconds later, and I look down to see that he’s replied.
VICTOR: I don’t know. But that’s why I trust logic over feelings.
It’s a very Vic response, and I let out a soft sigh.
ME: I wish it was that easy for me.
VICTOR: I wouldn’t say it’s easy, exactly.
VICTOR: When I was younger, even in the times when my dad was the worst, some part of me still loved him. Even when he hurt me. Even when I should have hated him.
VICTOR: It made no sense. But emotions never really do.
He’s definitely right about that. My head and my heart always seem to be on two different wavelengths. Knowing that someone is bad for you, that they’ve hurt you and they could do it again, should be enough to make you stay away.
But it’s never that easy.
I hesitate for a moment, then text Vic again.
ME: I got the tickets for you guys. For the museum wing opening.
ME: I’ll see you there.