Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
SORROW
His words hurt me, but his lips heal me in a way I never knew they could. I grip his arms and hold on tight as everything around us fades away.
No more cold stares or nasty whispers that make me want to crawl under a rock. The only reason I stuck it out here for so long is because I didn’t want to go home, and I figured this was the last place he’d look for me.
As his hand slides into the back of my hair, anchoring me in place, I think about the last time I was kissed. It was nothing like this. I should have known then what a red flag that was.
When he pulls back, I see no regret in his eyes as he searches mine for the same. I don’t know how I feel. My head and heart are warring factions, each aware of how bad things could get.
He must see the panic building because he sighs and presses his lips to my forehead.
“Let them talk. I don’t care. People can say and think what they want.
Right now, the only people who get a say, in whatever this is, is us.
If you need a minute to process that, I get it. But baby, this is happening.”
But baby, this is happening. What, the fuck?
An hour ago, I wanted to kick him in the dick. Now, well, there are lots of things I want to do with his dick, but kicking it is not one of them. I need to get out of here. I need space to think.
“Go. I get it, but don’t expect me to stay away for long.”
I huff but grab my bag and scoot around him before he changes his mind and tries to stop me.
My cheeks feel like they’re on fire as I walk through the gauntlet of people openly staring at me.
By the time I get to the door, my embarrassment has given way to my anger.
I turn around, and sure enough, everyone’s eyes are on me.
I raise my hand and flip everyone off before spinning around. With a flip of my hair, I walk out to the sound of Banner roaring with laughter.
Instead of heading back, I make my way down to the water and sit out on the dock, watching the water lap at the shore. Nobody bothers me out here, and after an hour of peace, I finally feel ready to head back.
When I pull up to the house, Banner’s truck is not there.
I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with all that yet.
I want to push it all down in a box in my brain with everything else I’ve been too chickenshit to deal with.
But the box is overflowing. Hell, maybe it’s time to start processing shit before I end up like my mom.
I stand in the freshly painted living room and look around, wondering where to start. Considering I grew up here, I’ve always felt like a stranger in my own home. Maybe if I started clearing it out, throwing away the stuff I don’t want or need, I would feel better about it all.
I glance up at the ceiling. The logical place to start is my old room, but I can’t bring myself to do that yet. But my mom’s room? There’s no emotional attachment there.
Okay, Sorrow, you can do this.
I walk upstairs like I’m walking to the gallows. I press my hand to her door, take a deep breath, and push it open.
I don’t know what I was expecting. With the police search, I figured everything would be all over the place.
Maybe it was to start with, but someone has been up here and tried to contain the chaos.
The curtains are open, letting in the late afternoon light.
I can see from the clutter-free dresser that it’s been given a wipe down.
The bed had been made, the pink rose bedspread smoothed out, and the matching pillows plumped.
In the center of the bed are knick-knacks and random things.
I’m guessing the person who cleaned in here had no clue where anything went, so they left these for me to deal with.
Spotting a wooden box, about the size of a shoe box, I walk over to it and smooth my fingers over the carved roses on top.
Somebody made this. I wonder if it was given to my mother by the person who carved it or if she purchased it at a thrift store.
I pick it up and walk over to the closet, tugging the wonky door open.
Inside are a few dresses hanging from a rail, along with an assortment of pants and sweaters.
I’m hit with the faint smell of roses, and it makes me jerk back.
I forgot about her perfume. More times than not, she smelled of cigarettes and alcohol, and—more often than not—vomit.
But on the days she was lucid, when she woke up wanting more from life before she gave in by lunch, she smelled like roses.
I don’t know what perfume it was, but it was the only one she ever wore. I can’t believe I forgot about it.
I swallow, realizing I can’t do this. Not yet. I hurry out of the room, closing the door behind me. I carry the box down to the living room, place it on the table, and stare at it for a minute, wondering if it’s booby trapped.
I know I’m being dramatic, but God, I never expected this to be so hard. She didn’t love me. And I didn’t love her. Right?
As I sit on the couch and the tears slip free, I think maybe I did love her.
Sometimes a little bit, sometimes a lot, but it was never enough to make her love me back.
I never knew my dad. He was dead before my first core memory kicked in.
She should have loved me enough for both of them.
Instead, she was incapable of even loving herself.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I lift the box onto my lap and open the lid.
It’s filled with letters and photographs.
I pick one up. A dark-haired man leans against an old truck with a younger version of my mother wrapped around him.
Her smile is one I’ve never seen in real life and shows every ounce of love she had for the man beside her.
Another photo shows the same man sticking his fingers up at the camera with a smile on his face. I open one of the letters and chuckle when I realize they aren’t so much letters as notes that they must have passed back and forth to each other.
Hey, Buttercup, have I told you how much I love your ass today? No? Well, damn. Come find me after school, and I’ll show you just how much I love it. AJ
Who was AJ, I ponder as I pick up another one written in the same messy scrawl.
Thanks, Buttercup. My father’s an asshole, but he’ll get over it. Sneaking out with you is always worth the punishment. AJ
I sift through the photos. They are variations of the same theme: this man, my mom, or both of them together. All except the last one, which falls out of a letter I pick up.
Buttercup, I’m sorry. I love you, a part of me always will, but this is not the life I wanted for us. I can barely look after myself, let alone a baby. Maybe one day our paths will cross again, and I will be a better man. Lord knows you deserve better than me, you always did. AJ
The photo is an ultrasound photo. For a second, I question my parentage until I turn it over and see the words Baby Boy Coming Soon in my mom’s familiar writing.
Well then, I guess AJ must have been the father—he just wasn’t mine. I don’t remember her ever mentioning an AJ, so I guess he never did figure out how to be a better man and forever became the one who got away. But what happened to the baby?
I prop the letter on the table and turn my focus back on the box.
I pull out an envelope with the words Angel Baby on the front and swallow.
I guess I know what happened after all. I trace my fingers over the writing, but I don’t open the envelope.
It feels too private, which sounds stupid when she’s dead and won’t care.
But I do. I lay it down gently and pick up another envelope, this one labeled my rainbow baby.
I stare in shock inside the envelope and pull out a drawing that I made when I was little, followed by a lock of my dark hair.
I place the envelope down with the other one and rummage through the box, finding an odd-shaped clay object that I had painted a lurid yellow with my initials on the base.
I also find a tiny pair of baby booties and a onesie nestled in the bottom in pale pink.
I pull out photos of me dressed as an angel in a nativity play, and at a picnic with my friends—all things I would swear she never came to.
A bundle of pictures held together with an elastic band grabs my attention. I pick it up and fight to swallow down the vomit rushing up the back of my throat.
There’s a picture of Alec standing next to his shiny new truck that his parents gave him when he passed his driver’s test. Next to him, with her arms wrapped tightly around him, is me.
The similarity between this photo and the one of my mother is eerie.
The only difference is the angle from which it was shot.
It’s almost like the photographer didn’t want us to know the picture was being taken.
I stare at my expression, wishing I could scream at my younger self to run before it was too late.
But all my face shows is happiness. And I was. I was so happy back then.