Chapter Thirty-Four – Dylan
Apparently, Torin didn’t appreciate seeing my cock at six o’clock this morning in the group chat. He did, however, appreciate seeing what lacy underwear Fawn is wearing today.
Ahh, it’s not like he ain’t seen my cock before.
I have a whole day planned. I was up before the sun, sending nudes.
The rink’s all set for practice, boards inspected, ice Zamboni-ed.
Now, I’m swinging by the nursing home then back to the rink for practice.
It’s days like these that make me sort of glad I work at an ice rink — because, fuck, it’s hot.
The sun is finally taking a toll on the nursing home’s garden.
The flowers potted outside of Mom’s window are giving up.
I checked them out last time I was here, and I’m already planning to replace them with fake ones.
I know my mom wakes up and looks at those flowers every morning, and I’ll do anything to make her happy.
With one last sweep of the parking area, I expect to see Fawn’s blue car here. Nothing. I guess she’s already come and gone.
I won’t lie, I was sort of looking forward to a morning kiss, but that’s okay. I get to see my princess later, and that alone is enough to make me smile like a complete idiot.
The minute I enter the nursing home, that cookie smell hits me — warm, sugary, and damn nostalgic. It must have been a morning activity of some sort.
Mom is seated at one of the round tables by the window, her back a little hunched as she attempts to complete a puzzle. Edmund is being wheeled out by a nursing assistant. He waves to me as he is led away, but he is already distracted.
One careful step at a time, I close the gap between me and my mom. A couple of things I learned: one, her mood can change quickly, and two, approach her with caution. I plant my hand lightly on her back to let her know I’m there.
She looks up.
For a brief moment, I am taken aback — how beautiful she is.
Not in a polished, together way, but in something more.
There is light in her eyes today. Calm. Nearly joyful.
She radiates this presence, undefinable, and it strikes me that perhaps I am seeing things from a slightly different perspective.
Perhaps it’s because of Fawn, because my heart feels fuller than it ever has been.
“Morning . . .” I whisper, not wanting to spook her.
“Oh, my boy,” she says, waving her hands together as if she is delighted to see me. “Hello, Dylan.” She raises a hand to touch my cheek, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Hey, Mama,” I say, leaning into her touch then sitting in the chair beside her.
That’s when I notice the brown paper bag on the table between the puzzle pieces.
The top is folded back, and the smells hit me.
Inside is a load of sugar donuts, but I can’t help but spot a piece of paper poking out from the bag.
“You just missed that girl with curly hair. She was talking to me, but I forgot what she said,” Mom says, nonchalantly tipping the bag toward me. “She brought me donuts.”
My heart stutters.
Trying not to appear too eager, I remove the paper to read the message.
If I know you by now, you’ve probably forgotten donuts for your mom after your busy morning in the group chat.
Love, Fawn
I bite my knuckle before I can stop, a stupid, uncontrollable smile spreading over my face. God. This girl. So considerate. So caring. Always one step ahead — make that three. I’m pretty sure she has my entire heart at this point.
“Yeah,” my mom says, her voice brings me back, “she was on the verge of tears speaking to the nurse. Something about fees, I think.”
“Wait, what was that, Mom?” I ask, freezing in place.
“Pardon?” She tilts her head, already letting the moment drift by as if it never occurred. “Would you be a dear and pass me a donut?”
Just like that, whatever she had to say is now gone. I don’t push her. I don’t follow it. What I really want to do is reach for my phone to text my princess and see if she’s okay, but I know I’ll see her in a little while.
I offer her a donut, taking one for myself. “How is everything, Mom?”
“Everything is good,” she says, looking around the room with a touch of confusion in her gaze. “When are we going home? Can we go today?”
That’s it. This is the one question that hits me square in the chest, enough that I have to turn my head and bite the inside of my cheek to keep from falling apart in front of her.
Hearing that, asking to go home, is enough to make me sob.
Putting my untouched donut down, I take her hand, interlacing her fingers with mine like an anchor.
I don’t know why I feel the need to confess.
“Mom . . .” My voice comes out rough. “I’m sorry for putting you in here. I was scared. I didn’t know how to look after myself, let alone you. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m so sorry.”
She freezes. Her donut finds its way back to the bag, forgotten, as she turns to look at me.
“Did I ever hurt you?” she asks quietly.
Her eyes scan my face — not defensively, not dismissively, but sort of desperate, like she wants the truth and is afraid of it at the same time.
My throat constricts.
Do I lie to her?
How do I tell the woman who adopted me, loved me, who raised me, protected me, that yes, once or twice, she did hurt me? Tears burn my eyes before I can stop them.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers suddenly. “I’ll never do it again.”
The way she says it, all soft and delicate, like a kid, annihilates me. My jaw clenches so tight, it aches. My throat closes around the air before it can reach my lungs. She looks scared to death, so unsure of herself, like she’s waiting for a reprimand.
I can’t do that to her.
“Mom, it’s okay,” I say, my entire voice shaking even though I am trying my best to hide it. “You never hurt me.”
Her shoulders relax, relieved.
“What you did do,” I continue, blinking rapidly as tears finally flow, “is love me and made me who I am. You’re an awesome mom.”
She tightens her grip on my hand, weak but certain, and for a moment — a single, fleeting moment — it seems as though she remembers exactly what’s happening, and I would do anything to keep her here.
Her eyes catch the light in a way they didn’t a moment ago.
Her mouth curves upward at one corner, as if a switch has been flipped.
“The other day, when Edmund was going on about birds, I remembered something . . .” She catches herself and begins to laugh, really laugh, her shoulders shaking.
“When you were a kid, you’d run around the house naked.
I’d tell you if you didn’t put on underwear, a bird would peck off your bits. ”
A laugh escapes me before I can catch it. “The inky winky bird,” I say, rolling my eyes. “That’s what we called it.”
She brings her hands together in a sharp clap, bouncing slightly in her seat. “You believed it! Until you were thirteen, you thought there was an actual bird called the inky winky bird.”
“Hey,” I protest, pointing at her in fake indignation, “I got bullied for that. I used to refuse to swim in the lake. I’d tell my friends if I got dressed outside, the inky winky bird would get me.”
She howls with laughter, leaning back in her chair.
“Well, congratulations,” I grin. “You traumatized me and invented a mythical creature. Thanks, Mom.”
For the first time in what feels like a very long time, the room feels brighter. We’re not a patient and a visitor, not broken pieces trying to hold it together, but a mom and her son, laughing over a ridiculous thing.
“If we’re going back to the past, don’t forget that one time when we went to the park, I forced you to go through a kids’ tunnel, and your butt got stuck?” I say, leaning back with a smirk.
Her mouth drops open. “Excuse me.”
“You had to be cut out,” I continue cheerfully. “By firefighters.”
She points at me. “Right, listen here. It was extremely hot that day, so the plastic tunnel clearly shrank. Anyone would’ve gotten stuck.”
We melt into laughter, the kind that takes your breath away and makes your eyes burn with happy tears. It feels good — normal, like the clock has been turned back far enough for us to find ourselves in a safe place.
She takes a breath first. “Okay, then,” she says, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “What about when you were seventeen, and the cops called me because they’d discovered you and Torin had snuck into a house party?”
I groan. “Oh no. I can taste the alcohol.”
“Oh yes,” she continues proudly. “I had to come pick you up. Both of you. Then, you both threw up in my brand-new car. I made you two clean it up the next day.” She shakes her head. “You were menaces.”
“We really were,” I admit, smiling at the memory. “Torin and I got up to so much when we were younger.”
“He’s always been a good friend to you, hasn’t he?”
It’s not a question — it’s simply a statement of fact. So many memories from my life flicker past in a rush of images: cut knees, late nights, bad decisions, good ones too. Torin’s been there for all of it.
She finally takes a bite of the donut, and sugar settles on her lips.
“Oh, so Jane’s daughter told her the charity event at the ice rink is approaching quickly.”
Of course, my mom already knows.
She gives me a squint-eyed look. “Son, tell me you’re not going to be dancing to Shakira songs again. That’s all I ever heard playing from your room.”
A deep chuckle escapes me. “I won’t be skating to Shakira.”
She closes her eyes for just a moment, then opens them again.
“What if,” I say, leaning in conspiratorially, “I pick your favorite Michael Jackson song instead? I’ll even get you out on day release. Yeah?”
Her face relaxes in a split second. “I’d like that.”
“You know, thanks to you and your brilliant taste in music, my signature move on the ice is the moonwalk.”
She gives that small smile, turning serious. “I used to love watching you skate. I’d sit in the stands for hours. You always seemed so happy when you were on the ice. I think that’s where you were always most yourself.”