Chapter 45 The Things I Should Have Said
The Things I Should Have Said
August
The scent of peppermint body butter and citrus shampoo follows Harlee as she moves through the hotel suite, humming whatever Wynter’s been looping on her stories. She’s wrapped in her robe, gold eye mask shoved halfway into her curls, mascara steady in the mirror. Calm. Unbothered.
I’ve been sitting on the edge of the bed for fifteen minutes, palms damp, heart knocking like it’s looking for an exit.
She catches me staring. “You look like you’re about to face a firing squad. Babe, it’s just lunch with your mom.”
“It’s not just lunch,” I say, breath catching on the words. “You know that.”
She sets the wand down and steps between my knees like it’s muscle memory. Hands on my thighs. Eyes on mine.
Her thumbs trace slow circles through my jeans, easing the tension out of me piece by piece. “You sure you don’t want me there?” she asks gently. “I can sip tea and smile while you rip the Band-Aid.”
I shake my head. “Nah. I need to do this alone. If you’re there, I’ll hide behind you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Sí, I would,” I say, brushing my thumb along her jaw. “You make everything easier.”
She presses her forehead to mine. “You’ve got this. Just be honest. She loves you. Hard.”
I nod. That’s the problem. Love like my mother’s is deep and constant. You don’t want to hurt it. You tell yourself silence is protection. Even when it’s really fear.
The city outside the Uber window is washed gray—slick pavement, half-lit garlands sagging under leftover December. The magic’s thinning. Everything feels a little worn.
SoHo in winter looks how I feel. Unhurried.
I tug at my cuff, then again. My reflection blurs with each streetlight, unfamiliar for a beat. The driver hums along to holiday jazz, but it barely registers. I watch bundled couples cross the street, hands linked like armor.
I’m heading back to the place that raised me.
Not the glass box Carver moved us into later. Not the staged house built for donors and optics. That was never mine.
The brownstone was.
After my dad passed, Mom poured herself into that house—quiet strength, soft rituals, warmth that couldn’t be bought. I used to come home to her singing over a simmering pot, Coltrane low in the background. The place held grief and healing in the same breath. It’s where I learned how to be still.
Carver never touched it. He stayed over sometimes, wore his slippers too comfortably for my taste, but he never belonged. Mom never let him stake a claim. That was her line. And for all her faults, I’ll always love her for that.
What I hate is knowing the truth I’ve carried—the one about that night—might taint it. That something sacred could sour the second I say it out loud.
My phone lights up. Not Harlee. Just a news alert I won’t open. I open her thread anyway.
Be kind to yourself today. I love you.
Eight words, straight between my ribs. That’s her. Gentle. Steady. Knowing.
I used to think silence was protection. That not telling my mom was love. It wasn’t. It was fear. And now I’ve let it live inside me so long, I don’t even know what it’ll sound like when I finally give it breath.
But I have to.
Before I lose the only real home I’ve ever had to something I never said.
The car slows near Prince and Sullivan. Snow taps the windows—soft, gray, blurring streetlights until the city feels hushed. The driver pulls over. I nod my thanks, tip too much. I always do that when I’m anxious—overcompensate like it might steady me.
The wind tugs at my coat as I step out. Wet leaves slick the pavement.
There it is.
The brownstone.
Same red brick. Same wrought-iron railing curled like vines.
Same lion’s head knocker. Not even the welcome mat—But first, tea—has moved.
A preserved memory. One she never stopped tending.
From the stoop, I breathe in. Vanilla rooibos.
Cinnamon. Lemon glaze. She’s been baking.
Of course she has. Probably scones—the same ones she made the week after Christmas, when it was just us and the house felt too quiet without Dad humming show tunes while undecorating the tree.
I lift my hand to knock.
Stop.
My fingers find the knob instead. Instinct. Unlocked.
Of course it is. It always has been. Even after the city changed, even when people warned her—she always said the people she loved should never have to knock.
I step inside. The house smells like her—vanilla, butter, lemon zest, her perfume soft in the curtains. Warm. Lived-in. Quiet that hums instead of echoes. This isn’t the sleek Midtown penthouse she shares with Carver—the one that feels like a press photo waiting to happen. This place is hers. Ours.
Old record sleeves lean against the turntable. Books with cracked spines. Candles burned low in mismatched jars. And a coat that’s definitely mine still hangs on the hallway hook, even though I haven’t lived here in six years. It hits me all at once.
The warmth. The hush. The way this house swallows sound like it’s holding its breath.
The floorboard just inside the entry creaks, same as always.
The amber sconce above the mirror glows faintly, throwing shadows across the wallpaper she refuses to replace because it was “the last thing your father picked out.” Fresh lilies sit in a small vase by the hall table—probably from herself.
She never waits on anyone to make her space beautiful.
I don’t call for her. Not yet.
I just stand there, still, eyes drifting to the staircase.
Third step from the bottom.
That’s where I sat at twelve. The night the hospice called.
It was late. Past midnight. I was already halfway down the stairs, unable to sleep.
Something in me knew the waiting was over.
She came out of her room like she’d been awake too—phone still in hand, grief and relief tangled in her eyes.
Not my mother in that moment. Just a woman trying not to break in front of her son.
“He’s gone,” she whispered, folding down beside me. “He’s not in pain anymore, baby. He’s free.”
We never talked about how he couldn’t say my name by the end. We just held what we could. She pulled me back into her arms, held on like letting go might undo us, and we cried until morning light crept in and the heat kicked on with a clang.
That was the last time this house felt this quiet.
I press my hand to the banister now, grounding myself in the worn grain of the wood.
Everything I never told her lives here—in these walls, this hallway, that space between what she knows and what she shouldn’t have had to learn from me.
I take a breath. Then another.
“Ma?” I call softly.
“In the kitchen!” she answers, before I finish the word.
I follow the scent trail and find her elbow-deep in lemon scone dough—red hair twisted up, flour on her cheek, curls escaping her bun. An old Columbia sweatshirt, slipper boots. A full tray cooling on the counter.
Her face lights up. “Augustus!”
God, I missed that smile.
“You’re early,” she says, wiping her hands on a towel. She peers past me. “Is Harlee with you?”
I shake my head, rubbing the back of my neck. “She’s still at the hotel. I… needed to talk to you first. Just us.”
There’s a beat.
And then she gasps.
“No,” she whispers, eyes suddenly wide. “Wait a second—are you—oh my God.” She drops the towel. “You’re gonna propose, aren’t you? You wanted my opinion on the ring!”
I blink. “Wait—what?”
She’s already moving around the kitchen like she’s been rehearsing this moment in her head for years.
“I knew it! I knew it when you brought her to the gala. I knew it when you called me to ask if she liked rose gold or white for her birthday.” She presses a hand to her heart, beaming. “Augustus James. You sap.”
“Ma—whoa—hold on.” I laugh, hands up, and for a second, I let her have it because... maybe someday. Maybe. “That’s not what this is.”
Her grin falters just slightly. I watch it—the flicker of excitement replaced by a mother’s sixth sense. She knows something’s off. Her hand drops from her chest and finds the edge of the counter instead.
“Okay,” she says slowly, almost too evenly. “Then what is it?”
“Not a proposal… at least not yet.”
She stops, one eyebrow arched, still holding onto that glowing smile. “No?”
“No,” I say gently. “But... I love her. You weren’t wrong about that.”
She softens immediately, and this time when she walks toward me, her expression shifts from giddy to grounded. Concern seeps in behind her eyes.
“So what is it?” she asks. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
I glance around and gesture toward the couch. “Can we sit?”
She nods and brings us tea—the kind she always made when I had a bad day in high school. Chamomile with lemon. Heavy on the honey.
We sit. I sip, let the warmth settle in my chest. She watches me the whole time. Patient. Gentle.
The clock clicks softly above the pantry. She doesn’t rush me. Just waits—like she knows whatever I’m about to say has been sitting too long.
“I didn’t come back here for a long time,” I say finally. “I told myself it was work. That was only part of it.”
She nods. “Go on.”
I stare into the mug, the weight of it pressing down until my chest feels tight. I’ve lived inside this silence so long I don’t know how to shape it anymore. I drop my head and force the words out anyway.
“You remember that New Year’s Eve party,” I say carefully. “At the penthouse. The one Sloane came to.”
Her eyes widen, but she stays quiet.
“Sloane,” I say again. “And Carver”
The air thickens. I brace myself—twelve again, frozen on the stairs, waiting for a verdict instead of a hug.
I close my eyes. Say it softer.
“Sloane and Carver”
She exhales slowly. “I remember.”
“I walked in on them, Ma,” I say, swallowing hard. “Upstairs. Guest room.” My jaw locks. “I wanted to throw him through the window. Drag them downstairs and let everyone see what betrayal looks like.”
Her grip tightens on the mug, but she doesn’t look away.