Chapter 38 Pike
Pike
I connect my Bluetooth in my car. The ache in my sternum intensifies when I see my phone still has zero notifications.
Skylar hasn’t reached out except for a quick Thank you for Emy and Analia.
Since acknowledging her text, I’ve picked up my phone a hundred times this week, desperate to know more. I keep typing, How did your LP go?
I always delete it. I’d follow it up with: You’ve never been the problem. I hate that I made you feel like you were. I want to be with you. But I’m not telling her that in a text message.
I had a better idea. It involved a lot of prep and a long talk with Jax because I needed all the help I could get. Then there were all the interviews for a publicist. I finally picked one, and if she can spin this in a positive light, I’ll keep her on retainer.
Now I’m thinking all of this is too much. Maybe Skylar doesn’t want to hear from me.
As I head toward Naples, I press the contact I’ve been avoiding all week.
Dad answers on the first ring. “Hey, kiddo.”
“Dad. You’ve called me a dozen times. What do you want?”
“Is that how you speak to your old man?”
“What do you want?”
“Brandon, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Here we go.
“So, I spoke with your mother last week—”
“You don’t get to talk to me about Mom. You left her. You left us.”
“Are you ever going to forgive me for that?”
I go silent. Are you ever going to make amends?
“Right,” he says, sounding too much like me when I don’t know what to say. “I guess it’s for the best you already hate me. After this, you’ll never want to speak to me again.”
My chest tightens. “How much money do you need?”
“I did something awful.” There’s a choked sound.
“Are you crying?”
I’ve never seen or heard him cry. Didn’t matter how much I cried when he left or when I begged him to come back. Now he’s upset about whatever thing he needs me to bail him out of again. Fucking figures.
“It was me,” he whispers. “A reporter approached me after your exclusive. They wanted more information on Skylar. I-I didn’t think it’d get this out of hand.”
My grip on the hand brake falters as if I’ve been hit.
“I needed a few bucks for rent.” His voice breaks. “I’m really sorry they smeared your girlfriend. Your mother said she was lovely.”
I feel like I’m floating above my body. “You leaked those screenshots?”
“I only told them the name of the group. I never thought they’d post what you wrote. Brandon, I’m sorry.”
Of course he wouldn’t think that. He never thinks of anyone but himself.
My dad once again chose money over me.
“How did you know the group name?” I demand.
“That night you posted your poem, your mother called me, wondering if I’d heard from you.
If I thought you’d been acting strange lately.
Hell if I know what you’re up to, so I signed up for the group.
” A ringing fills my ears, drowning out everything around me.
“It sounds rough, son, chronic pain. I’m learning a lot. I’m sorry you’re depressed.”
Is no one safe from their parents in this fucking group? If I were still with Skylar, we’d be having words about those rules.
I hang up, and have to pull to the side of the road.
Mom opens the door.
Ollie runs out, so I scoop her up. “Hey, Olls.” She licks my wrist, her tail thumping against my chest. “Sorry I haven’t been around. I missed you.”
Mom huffs and goes back inside.
I was about to tell her I missed her too. This is the longest we’ve gone without speaking, and I’ve made things worse by blaming her for everything and then ignoring her. Son of the Year right here.
I follow her out to the backyard deck. There’s a local wine, unopened truffles, and a complex puzzle laid out on the table in front of her hammock.
“Mom…”
“I’m busy enjoying my afternoon, Brandon.”
“I’m here to apologize. I shouldn’t have said what I did—any of it. The truth is, I wasn’t just angry about the article. I was upset with you for other reasons. If you could let me explain, I’d appreciate it.”
Mom considers me but doesn’t relent.
“I’m flying to New York City on a red-eye and want to make things right before I go.”
“What are you doing there?”
“If you let me explain, I’ll tell you.”
Her eyebrows soften a fraction. “Let me tell my friend to stop by later.”
What friend? As she makes the call, I reconsider the truffles and wine. From the way she blushes as she speaks, I’m guessing her friend is a man. A conversation for another day.
She brings out blueberry scones, a sign she’s cooling off. She sits in her hammock while I give my legs a rest on the lounger. Ollie’s snout nudges my knee, so I lift her into my lap.
“I talked to Dad,” I say, but Mom looks unsurprised. “Why didn’t you tell me it was him?”
“I only found out after. And you weren’t speaking to me, so what was there to say?”
“I’m sorry. Really.” I glance down at Ollie, absently running my hand through her fur, then meet Mom’s eyes again. “I didn’t want to believe you were capable of that, but after what happened with Blake, it made sense. I was wrong to yell at you.”
She considers my words while pouring herself some wine. “I’m sorry I didn’t consult you about going public with Skylar. I was trying to help, even if I know you don’t need me anymore.”
“I’ve always needed you, both personally and professionally.
I wouldn’t have achieved anything pre- or post-career without your unwavering support and sacrifices.
But you have to stop meddling in my life.
” My chest grows tight. “Tell me honestly. What were you thinking, joining my support group? How did you even find out about it?”
“You were logged in on your tablet one day,” she says, fiddling with the cloth napkin in her lap. “I took a picture of the group name. Then I turned on notifications for when you posted. I wanted to know what you needed support for.”
“You should’ve asked me first.”
“You would’ve said no.”
“And? That’s a boundary you don’t get to cross.”
“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “Even sorrier I called your father.”
I grab another scone and break off a corner. “I didn’t know you two still kept in touch.”
“When you share a child, it’s hard to never speak again.”
“Yeah, but…you called him that night. I’d never call Dad if I was upset about something.”
She sets her wine down too hard. It sloshes but doesn’t spill. Her fingers knot in her lap. “It’s hard to think about what your son would rationally do if he’s about to hurt himself.”
I ignore the blood rushing in my ears. This is why I’m here.
“I’ve never been suicidal. You can’t assume how I’m feeling by reading some vent I wrote, especially in a support group meant to be a safe place.” I hold up a hand. “Unless it’s actually a suicide note. If Skylar hadn’t stepped in, you could’ve gotten me put in the emergency psych ward.”
She pretended to be my girlfriend so I wouldn’t get hurt. It seemed absolutely batshit at the time, but now? It’s an honor she wasted her time on me. Have I ever even told her how grateful I am?
Probably not. When I met Skylar, I just wanted to get it over with.
If I could redo that lunch now, I’d appreciate every moment.
I’d tell her from the start that she already had me then, I just didn’t see it.
Her swagger. The long curls. Her ability to surprise me.
The no-bullshit way she said she’d pepper spray my ass.
I want a redo. No faking. I want to stand up for her the way she stood up for me from day one.
“You weren’t opening up to me,” Mom says. “I just want you to be okay.”
“I didn’t feel comfortable opening up. You do things that make me not want to talk to you.”
Her shoulders slump. “What are those things?”
“Like the incident with the poem! If I’m open about how I feel, you think I’m going to hurt myself. Like disability is some death sentence. And for it not to be, you need me to inspire people. You make me feel like if I’m not okay, you can’t be. You can’t put that kind of responsibility on me.”
“Are you okay?”
“Hardly. This whole paparazzi thing cost me the only romantic relationship that’s ever mattered to me.”
Her eyes widen.
“Yeah, Skylar broke up with me.” I tilt my head back and stare at the sky for a moment, blinking hard. “I don’t even blame her. She has enough on her plate without internet trolls.”
“But that’ll calm down. Didn’t you tell her? They won’t care after a while.”
At least we agree on something. But that’s what I’m comfortable with, and Skylar’s comfort matters more on this. I should’ve realized that sooner.
“I don’t want to talk about that.” I inhale another gulp of much-needed air. “Despite everything, I’m better than I’ve been in a long time. Being with Skylar helped me start to examine my internalized ableism and, along with it, some of the depression.”
I think my depression comes from PTSD I haven’t dealt with related to my accident, and all the grief there I struggle to process, but Mom already looks scared at the word depression.
“Yes,” I say, “depression. Mine makes me numb. I ignore my sadness and grief, force apathy, and zombie through life. I tell myself I don’t care, but really, I’m afraid to. It hurts to care.”
Great. Now Mom’s crying. My chest churns with that familiar feeling of wanting to adjust what I’m saying to avoid upsetting her, but I can’t anymore.
“You are depressed.”
I focus on a crack in the deck wood instead of her face. “And there’s nothing wrong with that. I’m allowed to process my feelings in a journal and share with a support group. You took that safe space away when you threatened to call the cops.”
“I’m so sorry.” She comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I know I messed up. I don’t know how to fix it.”
“Please educate yourself for the future. Talk to a therapist yourself, if you need to.”
“I promise I won’t make any more assumptions.”
“Or give me health advice.”
“I—”
“And stop telling me what to do with my job.”
“But—”
“No buts. I wanted to stay connected with snowboarding. Do retired football players never watch a game again?”
She shakes her head. Truthfully, I also wanted to force myself out of the house so I wouldn’t lie around overthinking, and at least this job was something I knew.
“My worth isn’t tied to snowboarding,” I say. “That’s one thing I’m confident about now, even if it took me time to get there. You need to let go of my worth being tied to a job as well.”
“I’m having a hard time with that,” she admits. “The job part. But of course I believe you have value without snowboarding. You’re a wonderful man with so much to offer, no matter what’s going on with your body.”
Mom has never said that before, and I didn’t know I needed to hear it from her.
I stand to hug her. Her arms tighten around me without hesitation.
“There will be bad moments,” I say. “Please trust that I’ll be okay despite them. Let me experience whatever I’m going through without having to be fake around you.”
Mom’s breath is shaky against my neck. “I’ll do better.”
We still have to talk about how I said she needed to get a life. I handled that horribly. I also need to let her know I’m not going to keep paying her a salary indefinitely either.
For now, I’ve opened the lines of communication. It’s a small thing, but it feels like I’ve dug myself out of an avalanche.
I hope Mom will take it seriously. I think she will. I think Skylar was right about her.
Ollie lets out a little huff and settles next to us, tail flicking against the wooden deck.
Mom pulls away, her gaze turning sharp. “Now, about you and Skylar—”
“What did I say about meddling?”
“Not meddling! Just wondering.”
Well, at least she didn’t figure out the relationship started out fake. Some things I’m taking to the grave.
“How do you feel about her now that you’ve had time apart?” she asks.
“More than words can cover.”
My mind drifts to my journal, to the pages I’ve written. Skylar hasn’t just made life bearable. She’s made it better—fuller, brighter, like the world shifted back into color the day I met her.
“Skylar reminded me that life doesn’t just have to be about survival,” I say, no longer afraid to admit it out loud. “She makes plotlines exist beyond the pain.”
Mom studies me. “So you’ll fight for her?”
I give her a wary look. “Well, for starters, that’s why I’m flying to New York City.”