31. Trina #3
“She asked my aunt for my number, which I found out about when we were in Denver.”
“Ah.” He squeezes me tighter. “That’s why you called me for dinner.”
“It’s not the only reason,” I assure him, nestling closer in the crook of his arm. “But even then, on some level, I knew you could make it hurt less. That you could help me.”
“I’m glad you called,” he says after a long pause. “I’m glad you came tonight.”
“Me too.”
We lie there for another few minutes, tracing random patterns on each other’s skin, being close and soaking in the warmth of each other’s presence.
“What are you going to do?” he asks.
“I was hoping you could help with that,” I say honestly. “My aunt…” I clear away some of the emotion rising in my throat. “Well, my mom tried to call occasionally over the last seventeen years, but my aunt never told me.”
“That’s unfair to you.” The edge in his voice teeters into anger.
“It is,” I agree. “But what’s done is done. I can’t change the past. And even though I want to talk to my mom, she’s never been a stable presence in my life. Opening myself up to her means I could get very hurt again.”
“You could,” he admits. “But if it makes a difference, I’m here this time.”
“It does,” I say, and he squeezes me again.
“I can’t tell you what to do,” he starts cautiously, never stopping the comforting movement of his hands. “But I can tell you that if I had a chance to talk to my mom again, I’d take it. Even knowing how much it hurt when she died.”
Another tear slips free. “I told my aunt to give my mom my number that day in the cemetery. Watching you and your brother talk to your mom. Even before I knew my aunt had been lying to me. I was young when they took me away, but I have memories of her. I’ve always missed her.”
“Then I think you have your answer.”
The fabric of his shirt whispers against my ear as I nod. “Will you…” I swallow and take a shaky breath. “Would you stay with me while I call her?”
“I’d be honored,” he says softly.
“Now?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Slowly, I stand to get my phone from my purse. When I return to the couch, Casey is sitting up and watching me. With one hand, I unlock my phone, and with the other, I grip his tightly.
“Squeeze twice if you want me to leave,” he says. “I’ll give you all the space you need.”
I look him straight in the eyes while I clutch his hand as if it’s giving me the strength to sit up. “I never want you to leave.”
He smiles warmly, reassuringly, cupping my hand between both of his. He’s here for this. And in that moment, I know I never had anything to be afraid of where he was concerned. Not my job, not my anxieties, not my complicated family history. He’s not going anywhere.
My hand in his is proof enough that I don’t have to be afraid anymore.
I put the phone on speaker and press my mom’s number. She answers on the first ring, as if she’d been sitting there waiting for me to call her.
“Catrina?” she asks, her voice unsteady.
“Hi, Mama,” I say, and I can’t help the smile that breaks through the tears still streaming down my face. “I’m really glad you called.”
“Oh.” She sounds like she’s crying, too. “I didn’t think you’d call me back.”
I look at Casey, who is watching me, steadfast and solid as always. Someone to anchor myself to, finally, after all these years being adrift.
Maybe my mom also needs that. I can’t offer her much, but I can offer her this.
“I’ll always call you back, Mama. I want…
” What do I want? I’m not quite ready to tell her I love her yet.
That’ll come later. I can’t make up for lost time either.
I can’t undo the past. I can only move forward with what I have.
“I want to get to know you. I want you to know me.”
“I want that too,” she says quietly.
Casey smiles softly and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear as my mom breathes a sigh of relief. It heals the scared, little nine-year-old girl who hides in libraries and reads countless books in me—being surrounded by people who love me, even if their love isn’t always easy. It’s always worth it.
My mom and I continue to talk for another ten minutes or so.
It’s stilted and awkward at times, but Casey holds my hand through it all.
When I tell her I’ll call her again soon, he tightens his grip and smiles at me in encouragement.
After I hang up, Casey makes a giant bowl of carbonara.
We trade stories about our families. I tell him my plans for the future.
He asks me to spend the night, and I do, equipped with the faith that my nightmares are gone, and even if they’re not, he loves all these parts of me.
In fact, he shows me just how much he loves all the parts of me—first with his body, then with his words.
As we’re falling asleep, he whispers in my ear. “We’re finally, actually, on the same page, I think.”
“Which page is that?” I ask around a yawn.
“The one where we love each other,” he says as if it’s obvious.
And I drift off to sleep with a smile, my body and mind more at ease than they’ve ever been.