Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Greyson
“You okay, hon?” Mama asked as I walked her to the door. Juliet’s and Paisley’s shuffled footsteps drifted off upstairs.
“Of course.” I offered a tight smile. “Thanks for dropping that off.”
Mama arched an eyebrow. So, that’s who Juliet got it from. “Greyson Michael, don’t lie to your mother.”
“Not lying, Mama.”
She hummed in a way that told me she didn’t believe me for a minute. Mothers. They really knew everything. “I can stick around and help if you need to get to the shop.”
“Nah, the guys have things handled, and Juliet’s gonna take her over to see the girls.”
We stepped out onto the front porch, the morning heat already oppressive compared to inside.
“But she’s flying out to see Myles tomorrow,” Mama gently reminded me. “I can—”
“I’ve got her,” I blurted out a little too forcefully, then tried to soften it with a half smile.
“Besides, you and Pops are taking Khia to see the game, too. I can manage by myself.” I always do.
I needed to prove to Paisley, to myself, that I could protect her.
I’d failed her once already. I wouldn’t do it again.
Mama’s sunny expression wrinkled into a frown like she could read my thoughts. “Ever since you were a little boy, you’ve been obsessed with being a hero. Making the world a safer place for the ones you love.”
I scoffed. “And look how that worked out? Liam’s gone, and Pais—” My voice cracked, and I shifted my gaze out over the faded-green front lawn and flowers along the fence. I needed to water them before it got much hotter.
“Dallas said you were there when it happened,” she said softly.
I swallowed hard. “Yup. And I couldn’t do a thing. Some hero that makes me.” My skin prickled as the footage of the accident seared into my memory tried to play again.
She touched my arm. “No, son. None of that was your fault. They’re called accidents for a reason. No one ever blamed you—you blamed yourself.”
Because who else was there to blame? The common denominator was always me.
Smiling sadly, she cupped my cheek. “You’ve always been my lone wolf, looking out for the others but refusing to ask for help for yourself when you carried the weight of the world. But heroism isn’t about perfection. It’s about courage and sacrifice, something you have in spades, hon.”
I heard the words but couldn’t believe them. And I definitely couldn’t meet her kind eyes, no doubt full of sympathy and acceptance I didn’t deserve. Instead I focused on the scuffed paint of the front porch. It needed painting. I should do that soon.
Mama seemed to accept I wasn’t going to answer, and with a final pat on my cheek, she left.
Rosie padded out the front door, pausing at my side and nudging my hand with her cold nose. I patted her head absently, the softness of her fur anchoring me to the present instead of the horrifying images of my own failures when it came to the people I cared about the most.