Chapter Thirty-one
Hale
My leg bounces anxiously under the table, the cheap laminate rattling softly with every jittery movement.
I chew at the dry skin around my nail bed, worrying it between my teeth like it might give me answers if I bite hard enough.
I can’t believe Eric talked me into this.
I should’ve pushed this conversation off until after the finale.
Although, if I’m being honest with myself, I’m not sure there will ever be a time when I’m actually ready for this.
What could she possibly have to say after all these years?
What has she been doing with Aksel’s parents? Why them? Why now? And why the hell hasn’t she reached out to me until it was convenient for a reality show to shove her back into my life?
Okay. Fine. I do have questions. A lot of them. They crowd my head, loud and relentless, tripping over each other until I can barely hear my own thoughts. But all of this could have waited. It didn’t need to happen right here, right now.
I bite down a little too hard.
A sharp sting blooms, and I pull my hand away to find a bead of blood welling up along the edge of my thumb. I stare at it, momentarily mesmerized as gravity pulls it down my skin. One drop. Then another. They land on the stark white tabletop, shockingly bold.
Eric reacts instantly. He swipes at the table with a napkin and presses a thick wad of paper into my hand. “Hold this on there,” he says briskly. Then, softer, with a sigh as he drags a hand over his face and through his beard, “I forgot how bitey you get when you’re stressed out.”
I shoot him a flat look.
He exhales and leans forward, elbows on the table, voice steady and annoyingly reasonable.
“If you didn’t talk to her today, you wouldn’t be able to focus all week, Hale.
You’d spiral. You know that as well as I do.
” He pauses, choosing his words carefully.
“This way, you ask your questions, decide if you want to forgive her, decide if you want to make up with Aksel, and then refocus on the competition in time for the finale on Thursday.”
I hate that he makes a good point.
I know he’s right, but I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to open old wounds. I don’t want to hear explanations that might make things messier instead of clearer. I don’t want to talk to my mom. I don’t want to hear her side. And I definitely don’t want to forgive Aksel.
He lied to me. Full stop. I don’t care why.
“How do you know I’ll forgive him?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Eric snorts. “Oh, please, babes. He’s just as wrecked over this as you are. I’d bet my third leg he had a damn good reason for not telling you.”
“Your third leg?” I burst out laughing, the sound tearing itself out of my chest and startling even me. “I’ve seen your third leg. That’s a huge bet.”
He laughs with me, and for a brief, blessed moment, the tightness in my chest loosens. I gasp for air, laughing so hard it hurts, sounding like I’m dying in stages.
“I’ve missed the sound of your laugh.”
The voice cuts through the moment like a knife. My laughter dies instantly.
I’m on my feet before my brain catches up, the chair screeching and flipping backward with a loud crash that turns heads across the room. My heart slams against my ribs, my pulse roaring in my ears as I stare at the woman standing there.
“Mom.”
She smiles uncertainly, fingers twisting tight around the straps of her purse like it’s the only thing anchoring her in place.
The long sweater she’s wearing is wildly inappropriate for Vegas heat, sleeves pulled down past her wrists despite the warmth.
I know what’s under there without seeing it.
The pale, jagged scars lining her arms were the history she never bothered to hide when I was younger.
Her clothes hang loose on her frame, but not in the hollow, swallowed way they used to when I was in high school. Back then, she had one dress she wore until it practically fell apart, the fabric sliding off her shoulders like it didn’t want to be there either. Like she didn’t want to be there.
She looks… healthy now.
Not just sober-healthy. Living healthy.
There’s color in her cheeks. Her eyes are clear. And even with the nerves written all over her face, there’s something else there, too. Something dangerously close to happiness. The sight of it knocks the wind out of me. It almost makes me forgive her on the spot.
Almost.
Eric clears his throat, breaking the staring contest before it can stretch into something unbearable.
He gestures toward the chairs. Mine has been righted at some point, and he holds it steady while I drop into it like my legs have forgotten how to work.
My hands shake as I grab my coffee, gripping it too tightly. The lid pops off with a soft snap.
“Shit,” I mutter, panic flaring as coffee sloshes onto the table. I dump napkins onto the spreading puddle, blotting wildly, my movements frantic and clumsy.
This is going fantastically.
“So, Mrs. Aka-“ Eric starts, but she cuts him off immediately.
“Please,” she says softly, that shy smile returning. “Call me Julie.”
Eric nods like this is all perfectly normal. “Alright then. Julie. Why are you here?”
I nod sharply, a silent yeah, answer that.
She draws in a slow breath, straightening her spine like she’s bracing for impact.
“I was hoping I could reconnect with Hale.” Her eyes flick to me, hopeful and terrified all at once.
“It’s been so long. And I understand completely if you want nothing to do with me now.
I really do. I just… I wanted you to know I’m clean. ”
My jaw tightens.
“I’ve been through rehab a couple of times,” she continues. “But I’ve been sober for two years now. I think-“ her voice wobbles, just slightly, “-I think I’m finally in a place where I can revisit the past. Where I can try to fix some of the mistakes I made.”
I don’t say anything. Can’t. My throat feels like it’s closing in on itself.
She glances at Eric, clearly uneasy about my silence, like she’s wondering if she’s already failed. To his credit, he doesn’t skip a beat.
“Why now?” he asks calmly. “Why not wait until the competition is over? And why make Aksel keep it a secret?” I’ve never been more grateful for Eric than I am in this moment. Words aren’t wording, and for some reason, I’ve forgotten every question I’ve ever had for my long-lost mother.
Her shoulders sag. “I’m embarrassed to admit this, but… I didn’t want the Winthers to spend any more money on me than they already had.” She winces. “They paid for my rehab stays. Helped me get an apartment. A car. I’ll be paying them back forever.”
My stomach twists.
“When the show offered to fly us out for the week, all expenses paid, I jumped at the chance. I’ve missed my son for so long.
” Her mouth trembles. “The only problem is, they made me sign paperwork saying I couldn’t tell you in advance.
I know now that it was a terrible idea, but at the time…
I couldn’t see past how badly I wanted to see you. ”
She reaches across the table and takes my hand.
Her grip is firm. Steady. Stronger than I ever remember it being.
“I hope you don’t stay mad at Aksel,” she says quietly. “I put him in an impossible position. He wanted to tell you so badly, Hale. I made him promise not to. The show wouldn’t have paid for me to come if you knew beforehand.”
My brain short-circuits.
Do I pull my hand away? Do I squeeze hers back?
Do I say anything?
Instead, I choose option three: I stare blankly at her hand on top of mine like it doesn’t belong there.
Eventually, she pulls back, embarrassment coloring her face.
Nailed it. Way to make everyone uncomfortable,
Hale.
“I know you probably need time to process everything,” she says carefully. “I’m here if you have questions. I could give you my number.” She brightens a little. “I got a new phone when I got promoted to supervisor.”
“You have a job?” The words slip out before I can stop them. My voice sounds smaller than I want it to.
Her smile widens. “Yeah. I started as a cleaning lady a couple of years ago. I worked my way up. I schedule staff, order supplies, basically make sure everything runs smoothly.” She shrugs, a little sheepish. “It’s not glamorous, but-”
“No.” I shake my head. “No, Mom. That’s… that’s amazing.” And I mean it. “I bet you’re really good at it.”
She looks like she might cry.
Then the thought I’ve been avoiding slams into me. “What about Dad?”
Her face hardens instantly, warmth vanishing like it was never there. “What about him?”
“Is he okay with you being here?” I press. “With you having a job? Is he clean, too?”
She frowns, confusion flickering. “No, baby.” Her voice drops. “Your dad has been dead for five years.”
My stomach drops. “What?” My head spins. “What happened?”
“I couldn’t take it anymore,” she says simply.
“You killed him?” The words come out incredulous. Disbelieving. This tiny woman? That massive, violent alpha?
She huffs. “If you want to get technical, I defended myself with a cast-iron pan.” A beat. “It was full of bacon.”
“Hells yeah, Mama J,” Eric says instantly, holding out his hand for a high five.
I shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. He lowers his hand slowly. “What?” he says, unapologetic. “You’ve told me the stories about your dad. He deserved at least a pan to the face.”
Despite everything, despite the shock, the grief, the tangled mess in my chest, I snort.
And just like that, the air in the lounge lightens.
He has a point. I have an odd feeling in my chest. Not sadness exactly. I can’t put my finger on it. I don’t miss him, but I miss what he could’ve been. What he should’ve been. How our family could’ve been had he not fallen into drugs and resentment.
When it becomes clear that I’m lost in my head again, she pats the top of my hand to get my attention.
“Here’s my number,” she says, handing me a napkin that she had written on, “feel free to call me or text me any time of the day or night.” When I nod, she gets up and leaves, looking over her shoulder at me more than once before exiting the little lounge.
“I still can’t believe she’s actually here. I almost convinced myself that I had dreamed the whole thing up.” I shake my head, overwhelmed with all the information that’s been dumped in my lap in the last twenty-four hours.
“How are you feeling?” Eric asks, a pen poised over a paper napkin, a random pair of glasses on the bridge of his nose.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m being your therapist,” he says with a grin.
“Where did you get those glasses?”
“Found them on this chair when we sat down. You were too busy freaking the fuck out to notice, I guess.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you have some things to think about. She dropped a lot on you just now. Your dad, rehab, and Aksel. How are you feeling about him now?”
“Better, I think, but I don’t think I’m ready to talk to him just yet. Maybe tomorrow?” I say it like a question.
“Tomorrow,” Eric says, deepening his voice.
I deepen my voice and repeat it as well. And this continues until we are cackling and drawing attention with our hyena-like laughter.
“Tomorrow I’ll be able to handle it,” I say when I can breathe again.