Chapter Twenty-Five
Caleb
Jay is the absolute worst at hiding.
Her scent occupies my mind all the time since the moment I recognized her. It’s my own personal drug, and the cravings are constant. Even a slight whiff of it, and I’m itching for a fix. She—her scent—has me by the balls, and her grip on them calms me when I need it most.
I head to the garden. A dirt path leads to a gazebo surrounded by hydrangeas and pentas of various pinks, blues, whites, purples and yellows.
When my father was courting my mother, she was interested in another mate.
Like the persistent gentleman he was, he brought her flowers from his garden every day until she agreed to date him.
After they were mated, he’d do the same to remind her of their love.
She hasn’t smiled much since he died, but she almost did when I started bringing her a bouquet of these flowers.
I’ve been trying and praying that, one of these days, she’ll smile for real.
In truth, it only brings me disappointment. Nonetheless, I hold on to hope that her condition might change one day, and she’ll smile at happy memories. In reality, all I’m doing is adding more to my plate.
In addition to being an alpha without authority, a hunter, a gardener, I’m also now a prison warden, it seems. And of all the tasks I have, that is shaping up to be the most challenging.
I select the blooms I need and head to my mom’s room.
I knock on her door. “Mom?”
No answer. I knock again.
“Mom? Are you in there?”
Still no response. “It’s me. Your son.”
When she still doesn’t answer, I twist the doorknob and crack it open. I find her in bed, sleeping on her side. I push it open all the way.
I approach the bed and set the flowers on her nightstand, replacing the wilted ones with fresh ones he left for her. It’s about the only thing she lets me clean in here without tearing my head off or having a total breakdown.
The room is still a mess, maybe even worse than I last saw it.
Boxes of old mementos are stacked and half-opened.
Clothes are strewn about the place. The air is stuffy and dust is scattered across prized possessions.
You would think it was abandoned in its current state, but it’s the exact opposite. It’s too lived in.
She can’t keep living like this.
I made her promise me she’d let the maids in to clean it. Clearly not. I’m sure she’s embarrassed, which is why I always offer to help, but she won’t let me.
I gently nudge her. “Hey, Mom,” I say softly.
She opens her eyes. “Caleb? What time is it?”
“Just a little past noon. You missed our meeting. What happened?”
She stretches. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I fell asleep.”
Sleeping is what she does most now. I barely recognize her anymore. When Dad was alive, she was bubbly and peppy. But now . . .
“That’s okay,” I lie, “but you’ll have to come to the next one.”
“Okay, don’t worry, I’ll be there. Promise.”
She won’t.
I could make it a point to say that’s what she said to me last time, but what would that help?
She hasn’t come through for me in months.
She knows it. I know it. Everyone else is going to find out and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I can’t force her to be our Luna. Hell, I’d settle for her just being my mom.
Afraid a harsher tone would break her, I talk to her like a pup. “Do you remember what today is?” I ask.
“No, what?” She perks up.
“It’s my birthday. Remember? I’m twenty-two today.”
“No, it’s not,” she says. “Your birthday isn’t until April.”
I sigh. “Mom, it is April.”
She frowns.
Tears are coming.
“Please, don’t cry. I wasn’t trying to upset you. You used to love my birthday. I was just trying to make you happy.”
“Oh, honey, I feel just terrible that I forgot your birthday.”
I’m a grown man, and I love birthdays, but that’s not why I have tears pooling in my eyes.
It’s because she used to love this day, and my best memories are connected to it.
She’d plan for months, and her excitement rubbed off on me.
Now I find birthdays extremely important, but my mom is not herself.
“Do you remember when you made Dad wear that blazer you got him? And he hated it so much he purposefully spilled melted cheese on it?”
“Who do you think had to call to reschedule the photographer?” She laughs through her sniffles. “He really hated that jacket.”
“Yeah, he did. Those were good times, right?” I wipe a tear from her cheek.
She grasps my hand in hers and kisses it. “Yes, they were. I miss those days.”
I kiss the back of her hand.
“Well, there’s still time,” I say with enthusiasm. “We could put on some fancy clothes and take way too many pictures,” I joke halfheartedly. “You always liked that.”
And boy, did she. It was actually the one birthday tradition I never looked forward to. But now that it’s gone . . . I’d happily comply if it brought a piece of my mom back to herself.
“Oh, I don’t know . . . I’m not sure I’m up for that.”
I already know what she’ll say next. So, I don’t bother pressing the matter further. Instead, I kiss my mother on the forehead and say, “Love you, Mom,” and walk out.