Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MAEVE
Oh, I fucked up.
I fucked up big time.
After the cold shoulder from Tate on the way to the hotel in New Mexico, it clicked in my brain like a puzzle piece snapping into place.
I should’ve never, ever gotten physically involved with him.
I should’ve kept this civil, just two friends roadtripping across the country together for the holidays. Simple. Easy.
But it was easier for me. We hadn’t even fully had sex.
I could shrug all this off because we didn’t go too far, to the point of no return.
But it wouldn’t be as simple as that for Tate, not when I was his first kiss, his first…
Oh, God. I was going to be the girl to crush him, no matter what I decided to do.
No matter what, I fuck up everything in my path. Everything I touch somehow spoils, like my hands are rotten, spreading their disease everywhere they go. He was tainted the moment he met me in that campus library, he just didn’t know it.
The farther we dive into…whatever this is, the scarier everything gets. The deeper my fear etches into my bones. The thought of getting any deeper with him makes me want to run. It would be easier to do that than to give him the impression I can do something more.
What have I done?
The funk I’m in for the remainder of the car ride to the hotel, even while checking in, feels unshakeable.
I try to swallow it down, to push it out of my head, but I just can’t.
I’m sure Tate notices, too, because I can feel him looking at me every so often, and that somehow only makes me feel worse.
Because now, he must think it’s his fault, when it’s mine.
Landon used to hate when this happened.
This is why I can’t stand being around you sometimes, Evie. You’re so negative.
Not everything is about you.
This is why I lose my patience. I wouldn’t get so angry if you’d just be normal.
His condescending voice replays over and over in my mind as I brush my teeth in the tiny bathroom of our hotel room, staring blankly at myself in the mirror.
I think I’ve been brushing the same tooth the entire time without realizing it.
Here I go again, unable to free myself from the vice grip that I question whether or not he’ll always have on me.
Some days, I feel good, strong enough to stand on my own two feet, but then days like today…
I feel like everything he ever told me I was.
When I finish changing for bed and step out of the bathroom, my feet padding along the cold tile to the carpet, I stop as I notice that Tate is nowhere to be found. The room is dark, aside from the glow of the TV, which illuminates the beds as it plays a crime documentary quietly in the background.
Where would he go?
Maybe he forgot something in the truck or went to grab a snack.
Something completely normal and not worth getting anxious over.
But as I crawl into the nearest bed, bundling down in the stiff comforter and pulling it up to my face, I can’t help but feel nervous.
He’s been so quiet today. What if he just…
doesn’t come back? I’ve been off today. Maybe that was his final straw, sending him running for the hills after all.
He wouldn’t do that.
I don’t know how long I lay there, just staring blankly over at the empty bed across from me, watching the TV flash different hues every so often along the sheets.
I’m so lost in my own head that when the door to the room opens, I let out a startled gasp as I sit straight up in mere seconds, chest heaving as Tate walks back into the room.
His phone is in his hand, but that’s all I can make out before he slowly walks toward his bed, sitting down on the edge of it and staring at the floor.
“Tate?” I mumble softly, throwing the blanket off me.
He doesn’t answer; he doesn’t even move.
His head hangs as he sits there, and I squint through the dim lighting of the room to check and see if he’s even breathing.
His shoulders rise and fall just faintly.
There’s a pit of dread that fills my stomach, making me scramble from my own bed over to him.
“Tate?” I repeat, the bed sinking down more as I sit beside him, looking over at his face in the darkness of the room.
He turns his head slightly, but doesn’t quite meet my eyes as he says, “That was my mom calling again…”
I frown up at him, shifting so I’m facing him now, my knee perched up on the mattress as I put my hand on his shoulder. “Did you answer?”
All he does is nod, just barely.
“What happened?” I ask gently. “What did she say?”
“She’s…dying.”
My face falls as my lips part faintly, my other hand reaching up to my mouth in disbelief as I study his features.
Finally, I see a twitch between his eyebrows, a sign of something.
How he’s feeling. His jaw clenches as he swallows, and his knee starts to bounce as he processes the words he says next.
“She’s in liver failure,” he grits out between his teeth, and that’s when I realize he’s ready to burst at the seams because he’s angry.
I’ve never seen him angry. “And she called me because…she wants me to see if I’m a candidate for a living donor transplant.
Because she doesn’t have time to wait on the transplant list for a n-new one. ”
Oh, Tate.
He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, but right now, it looks like every fragment of his being is alive with anger. The sight makes me so sad that my eyes start to water. I can’t begin to understand what he’s feeling, but I can be here. At least so he’s not alone in the process.
Pushing up from the bed, his large frame starts to pace back and forth in front of the TV, and all I can do is stare up at him, biting at my lip.
“All these years…” he growls into his fist as he paces, “she’s been a drunk a-all these years, and never once did she need me. Now that she’s killed her liver, now she needs me?”
I want to reach out, grab his wrist, stop him, but I don’t. He needs to get this out.
He’s running his hands through his hair, fisting it slightly before flinging his arms up in frustration and letting them fall to his sides. “Where was she when I needed her?”
Something inside my chest squeezes so tight, I have to fight the gasp that threatens to leave my lips, the sob crawling up my throat.
Seeing him so broken like this makes nausea roll inside my stomach.
No one should feel like that. No one should go through what he’s gone through, and I don’t even know the half of it.
“Where was she when that…t-that loser from down the street gave me a black eye for the first time? Or the fifth? Or the fucking tenth time?” His voice cracks, and I stare wide-eyed up at him, stunned by all this. His revelations, his cussing, all of it.
When a tear rolls down his cheek, my chin wobbles as my eyes start to burn. It’s not my turn to cry, though, I can’t cry. Not when this isn’t my trauma. My experiences. I hold my breath to keep the sob at bay.
“Where was she? Oh, yeah. T-that’s right. She was too high or drunk to even pay attention to her own son.”
My tears dry up as I notice the way his chest heaves shakily, bobbing quickly like he can’t catch his breath, and the way he’s fidgeting everywhere. Like he’s about to burst. A panic attack is bubbling just under his surface, and I know I need to intervene somehow.
“O-Or the broken ribs that healed on their own because no one would take me to the hospital? Where was she when I had those?” he whines. “All I ever wanted was my mom; all the time, I needed her. I was little and scared and a-alone. And now…”
Tate shakes his head, like he’s trying to shake the thoughts away.
“Tatum,” I say softly, standing up and holding out my hands, like I’m trying to cage a wild animal. “Tatum, look at me, please.”
He immediately does, his head lifting as he stares at me, his eyes red and his chest bobbing up and down so harshly, I’m worried if he can breathe at all.
“I’m sorry,” he croaks, his voice cracking as more tears fall down his cheeks. His dark eyes widen a little, like he’s just realized everything he’s just said. “Jesus, Maeve…I’m so sorry.”
When my hands finally find his arms, squeezing him gently, I’m shaking my head. “You have nothing to be sorry for, do you hear me? You’re allowed to feel this way.”
“I d-didn’t mean to just unload on you like that.” He tries to reach up and run his fingers through his hair again, but I stop him, holding his arms by his sides.
“Tate,” I whisper, “this is kind of a big deal. I think I would be more concerned if you didn’t care at all.”
“I wish I didn’t care at all.”
“I know,” I say.
The crease between his brow softens, but only because his face is falling in realization. Realization that if he can’t help somehow, his mom is going to die. The woman who neglected him all his life is going to die, and now that’s on his shoulders too.
I want to take all this away for him, but I don’t know how.
It’s quiet for a few moments as he just breathes, and I continue to hold him steady, ready to catch him if I need to. Even though I know I won’t be much help for his six-foot-three frame.
“My mom is dying,” Tate rasps.
“Yes.”
His face scrunches up as he says the words out loud, and his head drops to his chest as his shoulders sag.
His entire body almost folds in on itself, but I catch him as he goes to crumble, his face smashing into the crook of my neck as we fall onto the edge of the mattress, and my arms wrap around his broad shoulders, holding him there.
His cries are soft, barely audible, but his body shakes with them.
I rub his back gently as he clings to me, his body like dead weight as he leans against me. My heart breaks as I listen to him, and my hands slide up his back to cradle his head, pressing my mouth to his ear as I shush him quietly.
He feels giant in my arms, but I don’t let go. I hold onto him, whispering reassurances against his head, fighting back tears of my own.