Chapter 23
I Want to Break Free
Liza’s asleep when I finally come to bed, but I watch her face for a beat to be sure she’s not faking. She must’ve gotten tired of eavesdropping since she went to sleep without questioning me about the hour I spent in her closet.
Her chest rises and falls gently, and she never moves.
I need a therapist. At least an amateur one. I need Annie to put those six psych courses to better use than I have and help me out, but I’m sure she’s asleep.
Maybe … Mom?
The divorce is too fresh to bother her with my relationship issues, but maybe a fresh take is what I need. I don’t want to upset her, but my feet are already hanging over the side of the bed.
I pad down the hallway and climb into her king-size bed, where she sleeps alone after twenty-five years of being isolated, bullied, and taken for granted. She slept in a recliner in the living room for the last few years, claiming the reason was a combination of back pain and Dad’s snoring.
I knew it was more than that.
The adjustment’s been hard, but at least she’s no longer working seven nights a week to make up for Dad’s poor management. No more missing every school activity and birthday. She’s finally free. That realization probably answers most of my questions, but I’m going to crawl in her bed anyway.
Because now that Dad’s gone, I can. I don’t have to hide on her side of the bed after a nightmare, and little me is really happy about that.
“Mom?” I whisper. “How asleep are you?”
I used to ask if she was asleep, and she’d always say, “Nope. I’m doing the dishes.”
“Mmmm … level five. Are you dying?” she groans.
“Not tonight. I just needed to ask you some questions.”
“About?”
“You. Dad. Relationships. Red flags,” I ramble.
“Luce … what time is it?”
“Twelve thirty? It’s not that late.” It hits me that Jude’s back in Eastern time. I kept him up way too late for the chicken farmer hours he keeps.
Back when Mom and I closed the restaurant together every night, we’d unwind with some popcorn and a few episodes of Friends right about now.
“Okay, but I’m not sitting up,” Mom says.
“That’s fine. Umm, did Dad do things before you were married that should’ve warned you how bad your marriage would be?”
“I’m sure there were signs.” She yawns.
“Like what?”
“Well, I never had much growing up, so once I had my own money, I liked nice clothes. Nothing fancy, but I liked to be well put together.”
True. Mom’s hair and makeup is never over the top but always prettier than just professional.
Her ivory skin is still flawless, and she keeps her sleek, highlighted bob more platinum than my hay-bale color.
But there’s no mistaking the olive-green eyes that clearly birthed mine.
Growing up, my friends all thought she was gorgeous, and she is.
“Even in manager dress code, you always are,” I tell her, remembering the navy slacks and white blouse with the dated paisley scarf and silver name tag she wore for years.
“He rarely complimented me. Instead, he said things like, ‘Who are you trying to impress?’ I couldn’t tell if it was an accusation or he was just bad at compliments.”
My chest tightens. Nathan did it too, but my dad is the master of uncomfortable comments that aren’t quite insults.
“He had so many preferences, and the list grew daily,” she continues.
“I remember.”
“Right, you learned his triggers—open-toed shoes, red nail polish, and people complimenting me in front of him.”
I knew two of those. The third one’s familiar for a different reason.
Nathan.
I was getting ready for Nathan’s mom’s birthday dinner, so I let him in and went to get my shoes while he waited in the living room. Jude was working on our kitchen sink because Annie had continually washed her hair in it until it wouldn’t drain.
Typically, Nathan just texted from the car, but he probably heard me say DC was there and felt the need to investigate.
When I emerged from the hallway next to the kitchen, the first thing Nathan said was, “You’re wearing that?”
Jude growled but concealed it as a complaint about the clog. I watched Nathan’s eyes narrow as Jude stood up to test the drain and wash his hands, then snag a bottle of water out of our fridge—clearly stalling.
Nathan looked me up and down. “Do you own any grown-up clothes?”
I was wearing a short black cotton dress that I thought made my legs look extra tan, with a cropped denim jacket and pink Chuck Taylor sneakers.
It wasn’t formal, but this is me. I wore subtle makeup with peach lip gloss and my hair in clean, shiny waves. I’m no supermodel, but I felt cute.
“You mean the shoes? I can wear sandals,” I said with confusion.
“You look beautiful, Lu,” Jude said loud and clear in Nathan’s direction, with his face set like granite and a glare sharp enough to cut it.
“You look fine. I just thought you would dress up,” Nathan said, still looking me over.
I’m not sure why, since he was wearing jeans and we weren’t going anywhere that required reservations.
They’d met before. Nathan knew all about my bonus family, but I was never able to convince him we could all be friends—not even with Annie, though he continually referred to her as my hot roommate.
I didn’t like it, but I thought he must be the type of guy who’s open to sharing candid thoughts. I was wrong.
I couldn’t call anyone intelligent, talented, objectively attractive, or my friend.
I couldn’t have any opinions or compliment anyone but him.
He’d shut down and pout whenever I invited him somewhere the guys were playing or to watch any live music, insisting I obviously wanted to be with them and not him.
It would’ve scared me if he said yes anyway, because if they tried to get me to sing, it wouldn’t have gone well.
To avoid fights, I stopped telling him anything, which made me feel secretive. It was a no-win situation. The one person I always fought back about was Jude, because he was there every time Nathan wasn’t.
When I fractured my foot, when my car died, even when my cousin flew in to visit and I had no idea how to navigate the airport, Jude made time for me before I ever met Nathan, and that never changed. His kindness has never been conditional or to impress anyone.
It’s just who he is.
Jude stood against the sink with his arms folded across his chest like he owned the place.
His exposed tattoos made him appear edgier than how I see him, drawing attention to his impressive stature in a confident power stance I’d never witnessed.
“Nate, you’re a lucky guy. Be good to her if you want to keep it that way. ”
Jude lifted a hand as if he intended to pull me forward and kiss my head but thought better of it—flexing his fingers before opting to clap his hand to mine in our little handshake as he met my eyes with a tight expression.
Nathan huffed from the other side of the bar that separated him from the kitchen. “It’s Nathan. I guess it’s true. There’s always one friend they say not to worry about.”
“Nah, I wouldn’t say that.” Jude’s eyes narrowed with a smirk. “You should definitely worry about me.”
He did our silly handshake, hooking our fingers a little longer than usual without any further acknowledgement of Nathan, who was stone-cold staring at him from the living room. Once Nathan commented on my clothes I knew the night would be tense with or without Jude’s interference.
When I went back to my room to change shoes, my phone buzzed. Jude sent me a link to a Billy Joel song.
Yep. “Just the Way You Are.”
And yes, Nathan pouted and gave me the silent treatment all night because of Jude. But he probably would have because of my clothes or some other reason anyway.
He should’ve never had to defend me.
I should’ve defended myself.
Mom’s recollection of subtle and not so subtle jabs struck a nerve. Anytime Dad was home, it was like there was a bomb in the house. Watching TV or playing games as a family was rare, and it always felt like a trap.
Don’t disagree. Don’t complain. Don’t ask for anything.
Just nod and smile.
When you’ve had to neutralize difficult personalities all your life, it feels normal until you say it out loud.
And that’s what happened with Nathan. I tiptoed around him like he might detonate.
It’s the same dang thing.
He dangled a small amount of potential in front of me, and it was just enough to keep me from breaking up with him.
I’ve defended myself and fought back at times, but he isn’t like Jace. He doesn’t wind me up and then admit he was wrong. Right and wrong don’t matter. And why would I want to be with someone who makes me feel like I have to defend myself?
I don’t.
Maybe I had some repressed childhood need to fight back and win, but there was no prize.
“Mom, did you ever consider leaving Dad before he cheated?”
“I couldn’t, financially. Four kids require a lot of clothes and basic daily supplies that can’t be packed up and relocated without a lot of planning. There was nowhere to go, and my income was often tied to his since we worked together.”
“Okay, but if money wasn’t an issue, would you have left, or did you feel obligated to stay?”
“Luce, to be honest, I never had a family growing up, so chances are, I would’ve kept trying to make it work. I’m not saying it’s the right answer, but it’s the honest one.”
“I have to break up with Nathan. I mean, I did, but he needs to know I’m not just mad. I’m done.” It’s such a relief to say the words. “I feel so wrong, like I lied to him. I wanted to be patient and forgiving, but I can’t do this anymore.”
“I know that feeling,” Mom says. “But you’re not married. And even if you were, breaking up doesn’t mean you aren’t patient or forgiving. There are two people involved in that equation.”