Chapter 20
BABS
The jet engines drone in a constant tension. Hollister sits across from me, seatbelt still cinched even though we've leveled off. He hasn't said but a few words to the crew. The barest amount to get us going back to Boston. Back to his friend.
The cabin lights are dimmed, but the glow of his phone washes his face in ghostly blue. He redials, waits, curses under his breath, and hangs up. Again. And again. The same three names flash on the screen. Massimo, Diego, and Dominic are all going to voicemail.
I don't interrupt or talk. Don't want to be a nuisance or overbearing. My touch has been rebuffed a few times. I don't take it personally. People handle these things in different ways. I just sit in silence next to him. Asking nothing and observing everything.
The muscles in his jaw flex, unclench, flex again, as if he's chewing through every worst-case scenario. When the flight attendant offers beverage service, he doesn't even respond. I wave her away and fold my hands, nails digging crescents into my palms to keep from reaching for him again.
He looks younger like this. Not the golden boy who teased me on the croquet lawn.
Not the fierce lover who worshipped my body all weekend.
Not the romantic soul who insisted on dinner beneath an observatory starlight.
Just a frantic twenty-something-year-old who is terrified of how severely his friend is hurt.
I want to tell him it will be all right, but I've buried enough hope to know words are cheap in times like this.
Communication through touch and hugs matters more, but only if they are wanted and accepted.
So I hold a vigil for his friend, send prayers up to the heavens in hopes they're not too late, and sit in his quiet pain.
Rain slicks the tarmac. The Rolls is already waiting, exhaust curling like smoke under the taillights. He takes my hand, helps me down the stairs, but his eyes never leave the phone in his hand.
My gut has turned to stone. Worry for him and his friend.
Chasing terrible scenarios out of my mind that are too horrible to imagine.
My heels click on wet pavement, trying to keep up with his stride.
The driver has the door open, and I glide onto the warm leather seat.
The clock is nearing midnight when he finally speaks.
“I should go alone.”
“Of course.”
“It isn't that I don't want you there.”
“I know.”
And I do. These are his friends. My son is one of them. He doesn't have time for complications. I'm the complication.
He squeezes my fingers once, desperate and grateful, and releases them just as fast. His phone sits on the seat between us, silent and ominous, while the baggage handler loads the luggage in the trunk. Once we are in motion, he turns to stare out the window.
Thoughts race in and out of my mind. I want to help, but I know I can't. Wanting to touch and comfort him, yet refraining because he might perceive me as being overly needy. So we sit side by side, silent and gazing at the city racing by as the driver speeds to the hospital.
He doesn't try to call. Doesn't send any more text messages. He sits slightly hunched over, his knee bobbing, and his hands clasp and unclasp randomly. It's when the car gets closer that his hand covers the door handle. Ready to jump out and race in.
The car rolls beneath the awning.
Light rain still falls.
The raindrops glitter on the windows under the fluorescent hospital lights. They catch his face as he turns, looking paper-white and almost waxy. He launches out of the car before it comes to a complete stop.
Yelling, “I'll call you,” over his shoulder and running into the hospital.
Then he's gone, swallowed by the sterile glow of the automatic sliding doors and hospital corridors. I stare at him long after he's out of sight. Mutter another prayer and release a deep breath. The driver starts to pull away slowly, and when I look down, I see it.
His phone.
In his rush, he forgot it.
My eyes lock on it.
He'll need it. To find his friends or get hold of anyone related to the family. But if I go in, I risk being seen. It could be horrible. Explosive if Dominic is here and sees me. How would I explain this? How would I explain why I have his phone and why I’m dropping it off?
My pulse spikes. My mind wrestles with the pros and cons.
Debating whether to prioritize my dignity and respect over his need to stay connected and accessible to anyone who might need him.
His needs and emergencies take precedence over mine.
But at what cost to my son? This could further harm our relationship, pushing it from barely tolerable to completely broken.
It feels like I'm blowing up another meaningful relationship over a trail of lies and tears.
But if I don't go after Hollister and don't give him his phone, it could be even worse.
He wouldn't be able to communicate with his friend’s family members.
Do I protect the remnants of a mother-son relationship, or do I protect Hollister's need to stay connected to someone who might be saving his friend's life right now?
The choice is obvious.
I just hope both Dominic and Hollister forgive me.
I call the driver to turn the car around.
Wave the phone in the air so he can see it in his rearview mirror.
He slows down to make a U-turn, going back the way we came.
Every foot causes my pulse to spike. Slivers of doubt pierce my decision, even though I know it's the right one.
It's the right thing to do. I chant in my head, ignoring the fluttering of my gut.
Once we are pulled back under the awning, I nod and wave him off from opening my door.
I get out of the car, walk inside, and continue the chant.
If I find Hollister first, all will not be lost. If Dominic sees, I'll be forced to come clean without much planning.
This could potentially come between Hollister and my son, destroying both relationships.
The opposite of what I want.
I catch my reflection in the glass doors. Mascara smudged. Hair is a mess. His necklace is still around my neck. Not only do I look like his lover, I look like his secret.
The shame.
The guilt.
The impossible truth of it all lodges in my mind. But I shake it off, because Hollister needs that phone. He needs to be able to get in touch with people who care for his friend. Steeling my nerves, I raise my chin and grip the phone tightly.
I move down the hallway, past the vending machines and an empty waiting room. Eyeing the signs, looking for the ICU. Or trauma. Or surgery. I don't know which. I just follow the murmur of voices, the way I suspect Hollister might have gone.
It's when the wall to my left ends, a mostly full waiting room with people slumped over in exhaustion.
I spot the back of Hollister, standing, talking with another young man.
His arms were covered in tattoos, not similar to Hollister's but full on both sides.
He's bigger, imposing, and gazing straight at me.
It's with a sixth sense that my son's eyes flicker from his phone to me.
The registering of shock takes only a second before his leather boots hit the floor.
Dressed in all black, he descends on me like a dark tornado of rage and disgust. Sizing me up over a few rows of crowded chairs while I'm rooted to the floor. The scent of antiseptic stings my nose.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
It cuts through the quiet like a steel blade. The red tip, heated by so much fury, burns with accusation. My lungs hold the breath in them. The words die on my tongue.
Dominic's growl gets everyone's attention.
Another guy with dark hair, shaved on one side, jumps to his feet.
He's slender built, wrapped in black leather, and full of curiosity.
Hollister, standing with his back to me, whirls around.
His eyes widen for a split second. The look of panic on his face says everything.
This was a colossal mistake. I should have kept the phone and made other arrangements somehow.
Dominic.
Cloaked in darkness and fury.
Descends on me.
The harshness cutting his face is one I've seen far too many times as a mother.
It's contempt, disgust, and everything he hates about me.
Open and unabashed for everyone to see. The slow simmer he keeps it maintained under is about to blow, all over these poor people.
Casualties to the war that rages on between us.
I swallow hard, lift my chin, ready to go another round with him, if necessary.
“Don't you dare talk to her like that, Dom.”
What I don't expect is Hollister yanking my son back and using his body to shield me from the verbal assault coming my way. I've never had a man do this for me. Certainly not Dominic's father. No. He would either leave me to suffer Dominic's fury head-on or never be home.
I'm briefly stunned.
Caught off guard by the swift actions of such a young guy who acts more like a man than most men twice his age.
“The fuck you say to me?” His voice rises, shaking at the end. Trying to contain his emotions. “This doesn't involve you, Hollister, so get the fuck out of the way.”
Oh, he hasn't put two and two together yet. I edge around the side of Hollister, ready to take control of the situation.
“Dominic,” I start with the calmest tone I possess to placate my beautiful, broken son.
But Hollister does the unthinkable and puts an arm around my shoulder.
The room stills. The air shifts into a charged energy by such a small but loud action.
The slender guy in all leather moves forward.
The bulky guy covered in tattoos is already at Dominic's back, like shadow wings flanking the darkness.
My son doesn't notice. His dark eyes, the ones that are a carbon copy of mine, drink in everywhere we connect. A sneer forms when his gaze hits the necklace, not my usual pearls.
“You motherfucker.”