Chapter 32
Robert
“You look so uncomfortable in that, Rob.” My sister aims the spray bottle at my zebra plant before squeezing the trigger and misting the striped leaves. “Can’t you wear something else?”
I’m uncomfortable, but it’s not because of the clothes, it’s because of the woman I’m soon to be picking up. The journalist in me itches to turn every word she’s said into copy. The man in me knows she trusted me with it.
I’ve always told myself I write truth, not gossip—but what happens when the truth hurts the person I care about most?
Oh. Yeah. No. We’re not going to analyze the fact I just slotted Rhiannon into that category with little thought.
Shit. Emma’s still staring at me. “Make sure you don’t water the blossoms.”
She rolls her eyes at my snapped instruction. “I kept these fuckers alive while you were traveling. I know the score.”
I narrow my eyes as she sprays the same leaf again. “Don’t get them too wet.”
She repeats my instruction back to me in a mocking tone. “You worry about getting that giant stick out of your arse and let me worry about keeping your beloved Zelda here alive.”
I wish I could tell her to fuck up, that she’s talking out her arse, but she’s right.
Anxiety has me in a choke hold. This benefit is public, very public, and despite being surrounded by cameras and reporters, I don’t know if Rhiannon’s brother, or Da for that matter, will let that stop them from killing me.
I finally started my article on Rhiannon and the Ravens last night. It’s flat, blah, and wholly uninteresting, so it’ll end up in my recycle bin, but it’s a start. I suppose. A heavy sigh leaves my body, but the tension remains tight in my muscles.
“What has you in such a tizzy, love?” Mum asks, putting her book on her lap and taking her glasses off, as though she can’t hear as well if she still has her glasses on. “You’ve already met her family. This is just a fun night of dinner and dancing in your glad rags, right?”
I don’t think that I can answer her question. I don’t actually know why I’m so apprehensive about tonight, but my whole body feels bogged down with invisible weights.
Emma has moved onto misting my red Chinese evergreen while Mum frowns at whatever hack I’m making of my bowtie.
She springs into action, flapping my hands away, and taking the tie from me. “Let me fix that for you.”
“I should have gotten a clip-on. What made me think I could figure out this complex puzzle?” I shake my head, and she laughs.
“You’ve never been one to take the easy route, Robert.”
Maybe that’s the problem. The hard route feels familiar. The guilt, the grind, the impossible standards—it’s all I’ve ever known. Easy feels like a lie I haven’t earned.
She pats my cheek in a way that only mothers can, making a seed of emotion bloom in my chest and choke me up.
She doesn’t miss that, either. She might be a retired schoolteacher, but she hasn’t lost her powers of observation.
Pursing her lips, she tips her head to the side.
“What’s wrong, love? Do you want to talk about it? ”
I swallow down the lump in my throat before shaking my head. “No. I’m okay.”
Her eyebrow twitches like she doesn’t believe me, but with Emma here, she won’t push.
It’s been over a decade since Dad died while I was still in Queen’s doing my degree.
Mum had to unexpectedly step into a single parent role, and while she’s not perfect by any means, she’s always been there for me when I need her.
Whether I realize I need her or not. Rhiannon’s words echo in my head. Huh. No need to guess where I got it from then.
“Whatever’s bothering you, you can handle it.” Her blind faith in my abilities sends another wave of emotion through my body. “And if you can’t, just send them to me, and I’ll take care of them.”
That makes me laugh, and she pats my cheek again before fixing my tie. She purses her lips again as she studies her work. “You know, Robert.”
Uh oh. Here comes a lecture about something.
“It’s okay to let your guard down sometimes. I know you’re married to your work, and I accepted your choices long ago. But if this… whatever it is, has to do with the new woman in your life…” She sighs. “I haven’t seen you this relaxed in a long time. She’s good for you.”
Mum’s barely seen me since Rhiannon and I got together.
What is she seeing that has changed? Regardless, I need to set expectations.
The glimmer of hope in her eyes tells me she’s rekindled her desire to see me settled down with someone.
She’s always on at me that I don’t take good enough care of myself.
“Mum… don’t get your hopes up. We both know I’m not great at being with someone, even if I’m good at caring for them. Work somehow always ends up being more important.” Whether I intend it to or not. With every word that comes out of my mouth, a poisoned dart digs deeper into my chest.
It’s not a lie. My job has always been my priority, and isn’t it still?
Considering that I’ve started a draft of a story about Rhiannon without her even knowing about it is a reminder that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.
Pete texted this morning. He said the editors were excited about our angle. Our angle. He’d barely read my draft before claiming it.
I should pull the plug. But my name’s already on it. And what if it’s really that good? What if this is the one that gets me back in the big leagues?
“After your dad died.” She pauses as though even talking about him still physically hurts. “And you had your accident.”
She still can’t say “when you tried to commit suicide” out loud, and I don’t blame her for that.
The shame and guilt of deliberately driving my car off the edge of a cliff so soon after Dad passed nibbles at my nerves damn near every single day.
On cue, my leg throbs, a daily reminder of how my choices impacted everyone around me.
My therapist tells me it’s dangerous territory to imply that a suicide attempt is something to be ashamed about or associate my amputation with the feeling of shame.
Most days, I do okay at not letting those intrusive thoughts into my mind.
But sometimes, especially when it comes to my mum and sister, it’s really fucking hard.
On those days, my therapist tells me not to fight the feelings, that it’s okay to sit with them for a little while but to try to not let them define me. I almost laugh at how contradictory the advice is, and how easy it is to say, but how hard it is to put into practice.
“We lost a piece of you, Robert. You recovered, physically.” She winces. “Mostly.”
It was truly a miracle that losing my leg was the only major injury I sustained from such an awful crash.
“And I know you still see your therapist.”
It’s been a few weeks since I’ve had an appointment, but I get what she’s saying. “But…”
“But since you met Rhiannon, there’s been a glimpse of the old Robert. And I wouldn’t be upset if you spent a bit more time with him. That’s all I’m saying.”
It’s not all she’s saying, and we both know it, but it’s all she’s going to say considering she was going to drop it.
“I read your last article.” Her cheeks turn pink.
“I know I’m not into sports, and I don’t get it as much as I did when you lived away, but you have such a way with words.
The way you command the English language.
” She levels me with a warm stare that looks right into my soul.
“I’m very proud of you, son. And I can’t wait to read your next piece. ” She pats my chest like I’m ready.
But what she said about my mental health reminds me that even after all this time, I’m still rebuilding trust with her, like there’s still a piece of her that might believe I could do it again.
Hearing she’s proud of me, though, that’s a balm to a wound I never realized was there.
But the guilt of knowing she’s going to read what I’ve written about Rhiannon…
that… shit. That’s like quicksand drawing my body deeper into darkness.
Has being with Rhiannon changed me somehow? Is this dilemma, this tug-of-war in my chest over writing a story about her a sign of something more than me temporarily growing a conscience?