Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
OLIVIA
I have the morning off. My shift at the café doesn’t start until late afternoon, and I spend the first few hours of the day utterly restless in my own skin. There’s a worry coiling tight in my chest, an unease about the way Rhett was so obviously lost inside of himself last night. And the way he left me this morning . . . this time without a note and almost no indication that he’d even been here at all, completely unlike the last time he’d left me sleeping in my bed.
If it weren’t for the still half-full tub of cold water in the bathroom, I might have thought I dreamt the whole thing up. But the sight of the tub knocked through me like a bowling ball. Rhett had been here last night, had kissed me and held me and pushed his body into mine in more new ways that I want to hold fast to, but there’s a sinking feeling in my gut, a gnawing concern that he’s struggling even more than I realized.
I just don’t know what the point of anything is.
The words had been raw and honest, and the weight of them . . . it’d been enough to thread through me and pull tight. I’d wanted to loosen the tension of them, to remind him that he was good and safe and trusted. I’d wanted him to have a little reprieve from the dark corners of his mind, and while I don’t regret a second of it, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt a little to wake up alone.
Eventually, I wrestle my energy toward an impulsive plan to talk to my mother about Charleston. I figure I can play it safe enough . . . Rhett’s right, I do want to go. I want to see these people for myself and make my own determinations about their potential place in my life, and though I’m still extremely nervous about hurting Mom in the process, I think I can navigate a conversation strategically enough to feel out what she might think.
I was barely nineteen when I moved out of the house I grew up in: a dainty cottage at the head of a cul-de-sac that sits just off the main road in town. Less than a five-minute walk from the café, it’s where Mom settled shortly after she bought it. And while I’ve always known I wanted to stay in Saddlebrook Falls and take over the business someday, I’ve also wanted to slice out my own brand of autonomy.
Still, I love going home. It’s the house that built me—built us— into the strong, independent women we both are today. Where Mom taught me about kindness and perseverance and where I learned that, no matter what, I could always take care of myself. I didn’t need a traditional nuclear family dynamic to be genuinely happy—I had her, and it was enough.
As I pull along the front curb now, it’s hard to take in the navy-blue trim and shutters against the bright splash of red gardenias and not ache for all the ways Mom made sure we had a good life. I picture our silhouettes in that big front window, dancing to Shania Twain—or, on a rare, cruel day, Alanis Morrisette—in our matching terrycloth robes as the sun bled along the horizon, a cold glass of white wine clutched in Mom’s hand and a lukewarm peppermint tea wrapped in mine.
I mean it when I say we’ve always had a good life. Despite the worry and needling and judgement from neighbors all around us, I never felt like I was missing a single thing without a father. It’s a truth that winds through me now as I stare at the front door and find the bravery for a conversation that revolves around the man who left us.
Sighing, I pull my key from the ignition and push open my door. The cool morning air bursts across my face and sends a shiver through my limbs—it’s gloomy today, the sky heavy with what looks like an impending rainstorm. Pulling my denim jacket tighter around me, I climb the wide brick steps up to the front door.
Inside, the house is warm and full of the familiar scents of vanilla candles and lavender laundry detergent. It’s a small two-bedroom, not much bigger than mine, and smells always had a way of seeping through the entire house. There’s a fire roaring in the hearth, warming the living room, and I notice two white ceramic mugs set on the coffee table in front of the couch, the label of a teabag hanging from each lip.
Two mugs , I realize.
I didn’t tell Mom I was coming by this morning—I never do. I’ve always just walked through the door like I still live here, and she’s never given me a reason to think I shouldn’t. But the sight of those steaming mugs, the crackling fire behind them, it all sends a jolt of awareness through me.
I don’t think my mom is alone.
Something clatters in the kitchen, and I hear her bright laugh crack through the quiet of the house. A low murmur trails behind the sound, and my feet are moving before my brain catches up to what’s happening. Turning the corner around a yellow-painted wall, I find my mother perched up on the center island in a dazzling green pajama set patterned with frogs wearing pink dresses in various poses. Her red curls are unbound and spill across her back and in front of her right shoulder, and her cheeks are flushed and bunched with a wide, beaming smile.
And standing against the counter across from her is Mark.
Mark who, to my surprise, is without a shirt.
Only a pair of loose black sweatpants wrap around his hips as he works over something sizzling on the stove. His hair is ruffled and sticking up at odd angles and his face is still etched with sleep. It’s painfully obvious that this is the aftermath of a sleepover, and based on how comfortable Mark looks in this kitchen, I’d guess it’s not the first time.
“Mom?” I turn to look back at her.
Her gaze snaps to mine, brows arching high as a smile lifts her mouth. The surprise in her eyes is evident, but there’s no trace of the frantic edge that comes with being caught. Unlike Mark, who looks like he might shit a brick with the way he startles.
“Lovebean!” Mom exclaims, jumping down from the edge of the island and moving toward me with her arms stretched wide. She pulls me into a tight hug, her wild hair pressing into my face, and I can smell the traces of Mark’s spiced cologne in it.
“Good morning,” I say around a short laugh, checking out the country gravy Mark’s got simmering in a pot. A baking sheet of fresh biscuits cools on the counter and, despite the unbelievable awkwardness of this moment, my mouth waters. “Special occasion?” I ask pointedly.
Mom shrugs. “Nah.”
I nod, taking this all in. “Right.”
“You hungry?” Mark asks, looking a little worse for wear as sweat seeps from his temples. He’s totally freaking out but trying so hard to act normal.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I wave at the food. “I can come back?—”
“Oh, nonsense,” Mom retorts, reaching into the cabinet for a third plate, but Mark stops her with a gentle hand.
“I should actually be going,” he murmurs, eyes bouncing to me before resting back on her. “You two enjoy breakfast, and I’ll see you later?”
Mom hesitates with a long look and then she nods. “Okay, yes. Later.” The words are a promise, and I have to hide a smile in the crook of my shoulder.
Mark gives me a sheepish look on his way out of the kitchen. “Sorry you found out like this, kid,” he says, a pinch of regret between his brows.
I pat him on his bare shoulder. “Nothing to be sorry about.” I hope he knows I mean it.
Mom and I wait for him to grab his shirt and a few other items from down the hall, from her bedroom , while the shock of it still blares through me. He presses a chaste kiss to Mom’s cheek on his way out and says he’ll see us both at work.
When the front door shuts behind him, I turn to stare at my mom.
“What?” she asks, smiling through another shrug.
I burst out laughing. “How long?”
She has to think about it. “Short answer? A few months. But the long and more complicated version is the last decade, on and off.”
“Mom! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh, honey,” she tuts. Her golden eyes pierce mine, made bright by the splash of red that frames her face. “I wanted to keep you safe from it.”
“Safe? Safe from what?”
She shakes her head, holding her hands out around her. “From the uncertainty and messiness of love.”
“Mom, I’m a full-grown adult woman. I hardly think you need to worry about how your love life impacts me. I’m not even that surprised—I’ve seen the way you and Mark look at each other. But . . . I didn’t think you’d actually take the plunge. I thought you never wanted to be in love again.”
She clicks her tongue, leaning a hip against the edge of the counter as she crosses her arms over her chest. “I didn’t, you’re right. For a long time, I didn’t. I was jaded and naive about the control I thought I needed to have over my life to feel safe. Turns out, love sometimes creeps in whether you mean for it to or not. Mark’s been trying to lock me down for years, and until very recently, I’ve been too scared to let him. I actually think, more than anything, I’ve been scared to admit to you that I was wrong.”
“Me? What do you mean?”
“Oh, honey, I think I messed up with you in a lot of ways.”
I frown. “How?”
She takes a moment before speaking again, her forehead bunching in that way it always does when she’s thinking something through. “I was so vocal with you about all the ways I’d been hurt. I wanted you to have my story about your father because I thought it would help you someday. That you might learn from my mistakes.” She wipes a finger over her bottom lip before saying, “I should never have put that on you.”
“Mom,” I say around an exhale.
“Let me finish,” she insists. “I think it felt like your story as much as it was mine, to tell you of the kind of relationship that brought you into the world but that also left us alone to face it. I just wanted to keep you safe from all the ways I opened myself up to hurt. I never wanted you to experience anything like it, so I made sure you knew what it was.
“But . . . I think I messed up, Olivia. I didn’t realize that I was forgetting to tell you about love itself. How, unbound by the flawed humanity of the two people in it, love is a beautiful, shining beacon of everything good. It’s something to strive for, not shy away from. I forgot to tell you that despite the hurt we caused each other, I don’t regret falling in love with your father because it was one of the best years of my life. Sure, it didn’t work out. He wasn’t the right one in the end. But there was bravery in trying, and all these years I spent ashamed about the experience only proved my own cowardice.”
There are tears running down my face when she finishes, but I’m not sure when they started falling. The words are everything I didn’t know I needed to hear: the permission to do something different, the bravery that it takes.
Be brave.
Rhett’s words—and now, my mother’s.
“Well,” I say on an exhale, more tears stinging in the corners of my eyes. “I guess since we’re being honest, I have something I need to tell you.”
Mom’s eyes widen as they trail down my body, like she might be able to find some clue of what I’m about to tell her. “Are you okay?”
Another tear spills over, gliding down my cheek. The proof that all she cares about is me . “Yes, I’m just—I’ve been afraid of hurting you.”
Her eyes close tight, a smile lifting from the corners of her mouth. “Baby girl,” she whispers. “Try me.”
So I do. I tell her about Dad’s last letter again, and then about the next one from Céline. About how, against my best intentions, the soul-deep need to meet them and explore this part of me is bleeding out of my heart, and I know I would regret not going to Charleston. And then I say the thing that scares me most.
“I was hoping you’d come with me.”
At this, I see her flinch. Evidence of a crack in her steely armor. She looks at me, mouth pressed tight, but says nothing.
“I . . . I just want you there with me when I face them. Not even there there, like you don’t have to stand next to me or anything, not if you don’t want to. But I was hoping you’d make the trip with me so that at least—at least I know I have you close.”
I watch as her eyes shine and soften, shoulders sagging beneath her wild hair. And I hope it means she understands this is for me, not for them. My heart thunders when her mouth finally parts to say something. “Would they even allow it?”
And I see her worry for what it is: that old wound, the fear of rejection from the very same man behind all of this new hope. “I’m prepared to ask. And if they say no, I’ll understand of course. I don’t want to cause issues for them, but . . . they say they want to get to know me. And I want to give it an honest chance, but that means knowing you too.” More tears spill down my face, but I don’t wipe them away. “They might share my DNA, but you are my family. You’re the sole reason I’m the woman I am today, Mom, and if they want to know me, they need to know you too.”
“Oh, honey,” Mom blurts, charging forward to wrap her arms tight around me. “Of course I’ll go with you.”
I hold her just as tightly, just as close. “If they aren’t okay with it, I won’t hold it against them. But I will let it all go. I want to know them, Mom, I do. But I want it to be real, even if it’s a little messy. If they aren’t okay with that, then I don’t want it.”
“I’m so proud of you, Olivia,” she says, breathing in deep. “I’m so damn proud of the woman you are, and honored that I have a chance to learn from you too.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, soaking in the pure and honest love that only a mother could give. I don’t know why I ever doubted that we could handle this, but I’m so thankful I was brave enough to try.