48. FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-EIGHT
Candy: Please talk to me. You used to tell me everything.
Candy: Hunter, please.
Candy: We can even keep it between us.
I stare at my mom’s texts, feeling guilty that I have her nickname as her contact info.
How many sons do that?
Gray is typing away on my laptop, filling out applications, and I can’t decide if I want to write back to my mom or not.
For so long, I’ve gone through life without the woman who raised me, even though she technically is still here. When was the last time I trusted her? I guess I've grown used to not having her.
My eyes flick to Gray again.
The way he talks about his mom always makes me feel like I'm missing something.
His fascination with the woman's favorite movies, his little doodles of women with different faces because he can't quite remember hers, and the occasional murmured word in his dreams make me recall a time when I idolized my mom in a similar way.
But, I let myself fall into my dad’s shadow, choking myself just to struggle to breathe in his atmosphere. The old wound still aches, the one she gave to me when she left.
When I was a teenager, all I wanted was to know why. Why did our seemingly happy family fall apart at the seams, and the glue keeping us together left with her? There was a time when I thought it was all her fault—that she simply didn’t want either of us anymore.
Now that I’m grown and not that naive little kid, I can see how my dad might’ve been the one to drive her away.
But why?
They used to be inseparable. She’s always been his Candy, and he used to be her Eddy bear.
Not that she’s called him that in easily twenty years, but I remember it clearly.
Especially standing in this kitchen. She’d try to cook, my dad would tease her over the burnt eggs and bacon, and she’d laugh, saying how her Eddy bear would never refuse a meal, even a burnt one.
What the fuck happened to them?
Why did she leave us—me?
I fist my phone, knowing it’s stupid and unhelpful to even wonder.
My mom leaving me as a kid isn’t going to change anything happening now.
What’s done is done. I haven’t been able to look at my dad’s texts, so I’ve just deleted them as they come in.
His disappointment hurts more than I can ever explain. Berating myself is easier.
If only I’d told him about Xavier’s threats beforehand. After all, that’s what he trained me to do. Damage control, twist the story into the version that suits us, and slander anyone who says otherwise.
I’m a politician’s son.
I could be the next governor. I could be anything and everything my dad wants me to be. Tucking my phone in my pocket, I lean against the counter and watch Gray.
He’s completely focused on his task, having kept to himself since we got settled.
I recall what he said in the car—about losing his edge.
It’s the opposite for me. Since I met him, I feel my edges sharpening and lengthening.
I was a round, smooth, lump of obedience before Gray.
Look at me now. I’m hiding from my parents, creating a media scandal, treading in deep waters surrounded by drug lord pirates.
Gray makes me want to take, instead of accepting what’s given.
He makes me crave more and remember who I wanted to be.
The invisible scale inside my heart tips in his favor whenever I weigh my options.
But the one in my head knows better. If I could have what my heart wants, I’d have it.
I’d be out, proud, with parents who would love and support me.
I’d be a pilot, traveling the world, chartering whoever needed to fly. And I’d love it.
I’d love my fucking life.
I take my phone back out, pulling my gaze from Gray to the screen.
Do you remember our spot? If you do, meet me there at 3.
It’s a long shot, but I’m grasping at straws, needing something to give me hope.
Candy: I’ll be there.
The ground is icy, and chunks of clear frost cling to the dying blades of grass.
Overhead, the cloudy sky darkens, only occasionally letting glimpses of light peek through.
No parents in their right mind would bring their kids to this park right now, and due to its semi-secluded nature, I don’t have to look over my shoulder.
We used to come here over the summer, and the private park was reserved for guests of the area or long-term residents.
Mom and I would sneak out just after sunrise while my dad slept in, and she’d swing me while I told her everything on my mind.
Our spot.
I’m shocked she remembered.
As I run a hand through my hair, I pace, hoping I’m not making a mistake.
I told Gray I was running out to grab groceries, which is partly true.
If this doesn’t go well, I didn’t want him worrying or getting his hopes up.
In some child-like way, I want this to go how I see it playing out in my head.
Gray would have loved my mom before she left—before vices and sleep became more important than me.
No one can replace his parents, I know that. The way he talks about them is all the proof I need. But everyone needs a sense of family and belonging.
God, I want to give him that more than anything.
I check my watch, noting it’s just past three. What if my dad doesn’t let her leave? He tends to want to know her comings and goings, which I can’t exactly fault him for. The governor’s wife can’t be seen out and about without security or making sure she isn’t in a place she shouldn’t be.
What if she doesn’t come? What if she told him?
A chill trickles down my spine. The fragile hope in my chest is crushing under the pressure of fear.
Fuck.
I grab out my pack of cigarettes and pop one in my mouth.
She’s always hated that I smoke, and the few times I’ve quit, hoping she’d take the hint and stop drinking, she never did.
It’s been so long since I’ve thought about any of this, caught in the constant wheel of repetition.
If not for Gray, I doubt I’d ever have tried.
I probably would’ve never allowed her to fix what she broke.
Another ten minutes pass, I finish my cigarette, and my heart sinks. She’s not coming. Either my dad didn’t let her leave the house, or she got too drunk to drive.
I should’ve known better.
Clenching my jaw tight, I walk out of the playground and toward my car.
Tears burn my eyes, but I don’t let them fall.
I know better than this. My mother died the minute she walked out of our lives.
I pick up my pace, tempted to run. When my feet leave the icy grass and hit the asphalt, I stop dead in my tracks.
Her sleek Mercedes-Benz pulls into the parking spot beside my car, and I nearly shatter. The door swings open, and she gets out, burrowing into her thick coat. Her piercing green eyes land on mine, and a delicate, albeit hesitant, smile brushes over her lips.
I try hard not to look at her too much, so it always takes me back when our shared features are displayed like this. We look so much alike, it’s uncanny. Slap a beard on her, and you’d barely be able to tell us apart.
“Hi, sweetie,” she says, walking over to me. “I’m sorry I’m late. It was a nightmare to get Felix and Isaac to back off.”
Their security guards are nothing if not efficient.
“It’s okay,” I croak, emotions still fucking with me. She gives me a brief hug, and I don’t smell any wine on her breath when she pops a lipstick-covered kiss on my cheek.
“It’s frosty out,” she jokes, shivering dramatically. Her brunette hair is slightly curled, and one side is tucked behind her ear. Tasteful diamond studs are all she ever wears for jewelry.
She places a small hand on my arm when I don't reply. “What is going on, Hunter?”
“I—” I swallow. “Mom.”
Her eyes soften as concern pools in them. I can’t remember the last time she looked at me like this. “Tell me.”
“Mom,” I croak, the tears welling faster than I can stop them.
“Is this about the article? Sweetie, why are you crying?”
“ Mom .” It’s all I can say. A child crying out for his mother.
A broken man who’s gotten so good at pretending that the truth feels like jagged knives.
She’s here. She remembers. So many things rush to the forefront of my mind, so many old scars that burn and ooze to this day, and all I can do is say her name.
My mom.
Her hands cup my cheeks, her green eyes urging me to say anything, but I can’t. She holds me for long seconds while I simply look at her. I want to know why. Why did she leave me? Why did she come back? Why didn’t she ever tell me what was so fucking important that her son stopped mattering?
I don’t know if my expression mirrors these questions or if she simply knows, but my mother blows out an unsteady breath.
“You want to know why?”
“Why did you leave? Two phone calls a year? And then you just came back like it never happened. Like I wasn’t irrevocably damaged?” My voice cracks, and I hate that it does.
“You’re not the only one burdened by secrets, honey,” she says grimly. “Let’s sit.”
We walk over to a park bench, and my hands shake, so I slide them into my pockets.
Sitting like this is uncomfortable, especially in these slacks, but I don’t want to be any more vulnerable than I already am.
She fusses with her coat for a few seconds, probably gathering her thoughts.
I don’t know. I barely know her anymore—just the shell she’s become.
Part of me wants to pry into what she said, that I’m not the only one burdened by secrets.
But she starts talking before I can.