Chapter 13 Terrycloth Mom #2
She turns at the sound of my voice and stands when she sees me.
Tears immediately spring to her pale blue eyes, and she sobs as she wraps her arms around me.
I breathe in the soap and cotton scent of her.
Helen’s scent today, just like the first time I met her at Cardigan, reminds me of the blanket my mother burned.
I let her hold me because there is no one on earth I owe more to than this woman.
“Baby boy,” she whispers, pulling away to look at me. She pushes a stray lock of hair off my forehead before resting her cool hands on my cheeks. Her eyes show barely a hint of the time that’s passed. They’re the same as I remember.
I don’t know if she’s crying because of West or because of me, but I let her look me over, even as her sobs retreat into silent weeping.
This is the woman who found my phone number.
This is the woman who brought me home. Helen Miles gave me my first book on the history of art.
She gave me a place to stay and a seat at her table, and she never once treated me like I was anything less than a member of her family.
If you could call getting a master’s degree in art history a success, she’s the reason I succeeded.
“You’re so handsome,” she says, a smile breaking through her grief. “I missed you, Archer.”
All the questions I have don’t matter much now that I’m standing in front of her, and she’s looking at me like I’m dear to her. “I missed you too.”
She takes a tissue from her purse and dabs at her face. She looks exhausted. “Sorry for the waterworks. Sit with me.” She moves her purse so I can be beside her. “West told me you’re teaching at the community college? Art?”
I nod.
“How’s it going for you?”
“It’s been good so far. I like it.”
“Good…good. I’m proud of you.” Her hand on my knee gives a tight squeeze.
A door opens, and West enters the courtroom with his lawyer.
He’s wearing a black suit fit for a funeral.
Sometime in the last two days, he cut off his hair.
All that’s left is half a centimeter of dark, new growth and the beard.
West is a big guy—strong. The new look gives him an even sharper edge.
That’s smart. If I were going to prison for two to ten, I’d want to look intimidating, too.
He approaches Helen and me, giving his mom a long hug over the polished wooden barrier between us. He turns to me, and I get a hug, too. I take it. My walls are crumbling anyway. “You look good,” I tell him.
He nods, a grin on his face as he pulls away. “Thanks.” His smile fades, reality darkening his eyes. The cruelty of his new look shows in the steel set of his jaw and the blade of his cheekbone. The prominence of the neck tattoo.
I’ve painted his face a hundred times. I’ve never done it justice.
As it hardens, he does the most unexpected thing. He takes my hand. I look down at the grip we suddenly have on each other.
“Thank you, brother,” he says, the words pushing up from the bottom of his heart.
“I wish…you’d think I’d be able to do more.” With all the money is what I mean. Although I did a lot. Everything I could, including hiring him the best attorney—one with friends in the DAs office. He’s about to go someplace my money won’t help him, though.
He shakes his head. “You did enough. Look out for my mom, will you?”
I feel her hand on my back as I nod.
“She’s there for you, too,” he reminds me.
How could he possibly care about me right now? My eyes hold the question when I look at him. He reads it like it’s a traffic sign. Like he knows it by shape, and no words are necessary.
“We’re good. You know that, right? We’re square,” he says.
Helen’s arm tightens around my waist. She rests her head on my upper arm, not quite tall enough to reach my shoulder. “He knows,” she says.
West nods. He lets my hand go and sits down next to his lawyer.
Two hours later, he disappears from my life again. Vanishes.
I hold Helen’s hand as her son evaporates…recedes. He ceases to exist in any meaningful way.
Three years.
I want to burn the world.
Light a match and set fire to the whole fucking thing so that not even God can recognize it.
At my invitation, Helen Miles joins me for a drink at Strange Days when we leave the courthouse.
She’s stoic about West heading for prison and was clearly more prepared for this horrible day than I was.
Now that he’s gone, she wants to hear all about me.
Since I’m not my favorite topic, this proves difficult.
Eyeing my hand as I lift my drink, she says, “You still paint, I see.”
“Just as a hobby.”
“Do you show your work to anyone?”
“No, but you can always come by the house if you want to take a look.”
“So, you’re not shy about it, you just think it’s not worth much.”
I lean back in my seat and look warily at the older woman.
She has a resting bitch face for sure, but as soon as she opens her mouth, you realize you’re talking to one of the kindest, most down to earth people you’ll ever meet.
We’ve had some big conversations in my life—about my life, but it’s been a long time, and I’m not sure what the point of this is.
Not that I’m angry at her or suspicious.
I’m only trying to decide how involved I want to get.
Reintroducing myself to West’s life didn’t wind up so well for me, and I’m not looking to form any other unnecessary attachments.
“I’m not saying I think it’s bad,” I tell her. “It’s more like a diary, I guess. It’s personal.”
She nods slowly. “And what are you feeding yourself?”
I arch a brow. “Um. Well…last night I made a pretty amazing can of ravioli.”
This gets the response I’m expecting. “You’ll come Saturday for dinner, then.”
“Okay.”
“You’re welcome to bring Connor along.”
“I don’t think Connor’s planning to be in town this weekend.”
“How is he?”
Connor and I haven’t spoken in two weeks.
He was gone last weekend, and I have no reason to believe this weekend will be any different.
He’s gotten good at getting into his room before I get home from work and staying there.
He’s gone when I wake up. Damp towels in the bathroom are one of the only clues indicating that I share my house with someone else.
When he does happen to be out and about, usually walking back and forth from the kitchen, he pretends I don’t exist, and after what happened, I don’t blame him.
I owe him an enormous apology, and if I thought he’d accept it, I might be more willing to knock on his door, but my apologies haven’t gone over so well with him historically. “He’s dealing with a lot. It’s pretty rocky.”
She studies me a long moment. “Don’t push it. It’s more likely than not he’ll come around as long as you’re there for him.”
“That’s the thing. He turns nineteen in November, and I think he’s planning to move out when he gets his inheritance.”
“Ah. Well, I’m sorry. It sounds like he’s not giving you a chance.”
I shake my head. “I don’t deserve it. I left.”
“You did what you needed to do, Archer. West was hurt, and I’m sure he gave you an earful, but you were eighteen, and you were ready to be on your own.”
I huff. “Was I?”
“I was more surprised to hear you came back. Even with the circumstances.”
“You gave someone my phone number.”
She gives me a vague smile.
“How’d you get a hold of that?”
“I have my ways.”
“Okay,” I say softly, letting her have her secret. “Kinda makes it seem like you wanted me back.”
“You know me, Archer. I like for my boys to have choices.”
I swallow hard, reaching for my glass again. Her boys. “Yeah, you were always really good about that.”
As though she senses I’m about to crawl back into my protective shell, she says, “Now tell me about this job of yours and what plans you have for the future.”
Most of my future plans revolve around learning how to run a bar, but I tell Helen about my art history plans instead and how I still want to teach it, but maybe not at the community college, which means I’m thinking of pursuing a PhD.
She leaves after we talk for about an hour, giving me another long hug, minus the tears, and reminding me to stop by Saturday, and that I already know the way to her house.
I wind up behind the bar with the shift lead, a skinny, heavily tatted Black woman named Kat—short for Katrina.
She wears crop tops and short shorts, showing off her long legs.
Her tattoos are all black line work, and they stand out on her lighter-toned skin.
She’s extremely pretty but wants nothing from a man other than respect.
I think I’m growing on her, but she’s understandably upset about West being gone.
I’m not ready to learn bartending yet, but I do want to know how we handle money. As the evening gets busier, she walks me through their system and teaches me how to wash the glasses. She keeps me working, and the crowd keeps us from thinking about why the fuck I’m here in the first place.
It’s nearing ten when she nudges me with her shoulder and says someone’s asking for me.
“Did you tell them I don’t know how to make drinks?”
“I made him his drink. He asked for you by name. Guy at the corner with the slutty glasses.”
I glance over at the dark-haired man in the open-collared blue button down. I recognize him, but don’t immediately recall from where.
“Hey,” I say as I approach, making it clear with the expression on my face that I’m having some trouble placing him.
“Liam Roberts. InVivion.”
“Ah.” I hold out my hand, and he shakes it, his grip lingering a few seconds longer before letting go and giving me a very particular kind of smile.
Damn.
I didn’t see this coming. What a fucking day.
“I didn’t know you worked here,” he says. “I saw you, and I thought I’d say hello.”
“How’s business?” I clear two empty glasses from the bar and try to decide how I want to handle this.
“It’s good. How’ve you been?”