51. mum’s the word （don’t hate me）
CHAPTER 51
MUM’S THE WORD (DON’T HATE ME)
LINCOLN
Why am I fighting this? Reed has made no secret of how little he respects me, and that’s without knowing the truth.
I’ve been maintaining a lie for so long, I managed to convince myself that, eventually, he’d see me as I hope to be, not as the foolish kid he’s set on remembering me as.
Perhaps it’s worth calling Kyle’s bluff and seeing how this plays out. Rip off the Band-Aid. Call the game.
Leave the past where it belongs.
I take petty pleasure in loading up on food for Ivy— berries, croissants, a generous serving of yogurt (with a sneaky side of marmalade, because I will convince her it’s delicious if it kills me). Richard says nothing, but his breathing has a distinctly loud disdain embedded in it.
When I reach the stairs back to the bedrooms, I find Darcy attempting in vain to get information out of Mum about her trip. I’m more interested in what the hell she was doing sneaking out last night, but if Ivy is right, I don’t need the visual. Or the confirmation.
Before I can pass, Mum’s arm shoots out. “Lincoln, do you have a moment?”
My hands are full, so I simply raise them in explanation, only to find them abruptly empty when Darcy steals the dishes off me. “I’ll take these to Ivy,” she says innocently. They’ve definitely been talking about me, then. “I even promise to let her put pants on first.”
I follow Mum to one of the draftier sitting rooms, where Richard has knocked down Deacon’s mahogany bookshelves and replaced them with a fake stone wall and a flatscreen television. It physically hurts to look at, and a small part of me weeps at what might have become of the first edition Alexandre Dumas collection I’d always hoped to inherit.
“How are you?” Mum asks, sitting uncomfortably straight on a leather bench seat that looks as though it was carved in stone. As I sit beside her, I realize it feels that way as well.
“Fine,” I say, condensing down a thousand feelings into as quick an answer as I can hope to achieve. Where would I even start? The fact that I’m deeply in love with the most amazing woman? That Kyle is currently attempting to blackmail his way into Reed’s pocket? That I still miss London and Dad, but also, inexplicably, her, even though she’s right here, because I haven’t the first clue how to talk to her?
Surely “fine” covers all that.
“How was Paris?” I ask in return.
“My trip was,” she smiles, “enlightening.” There are twin pink spots on her cheeks. I know without a doubt Ivy guessed correctly, and I definitely do not want any more details than that.
But I am absolutely certain I need to be there when Reed gets a clue. He’ll probably short out.
In the years since the divorce, we’ve never spoken about it— who stayed, who left, who got hurt. Not one word, because why would we ever talk about the wound when we can pick at it, never let it heal?
Ivy is right. I have been distracting myself. “Do you blame me for choosing Dad?”
Mum doesn’t look mad, or even disappointed. No, she smiles. It’s small, and yes, sad, but still genuine, and it cracks open something in my chest that I’m not prepared for.
“I was hurt in the beginning,” she says, looking down at her lap, where she’s habitually rubbing her thumb and forefinger together. She catches herself, stops, flattens her hands over her skirt. There are more wrinkles than I remember. “Can I be honest? I think we’re both old enough for it now.”
I nod and prepare myself.
“It made it harder, that your father and I separated amicably. If I hated him, I could have blamed him for taking you away from me. But I didn’t. And if I couldn’t blame him, and I couldn’t blame you, all that left was the hurt and a distance between us I’ve been attempting to bridge ever since.”
A few years ago, I would have argued this point. What good were her intentions if they never reached me? We should have had this conversation years ago.
But I’m as much to blame as anyone. “I know I haven’t made it easy for you.”
She offers me an understanding smile. “No, but I’m proud of you for that. And I’m proud of you for the choice you made. I know how much it meant to your father, and despite my hurt, I’ve always been glad knowing that you were together, looking after each other.”
“Keeping an eye on each other, you mean.” I rub at my jaw, the scratch of new growth telling me it’s not just a haircut I’m overdue for. Though I suspect Ivy will have some opinions on both, if last night (and this morning) is any indication.
Mum raises her hand to my cheek, a move she used to employ when I’d messed up. I suppose she felt it softened the blow of her disappointment. But this time, it comes with undisguised humor. It reminds me so much of Darcy, I almost want to laugh. “Lincoln, I mean this with love, but you are, and have always been, your father’s son. I knew the moment he held you that I was in trouble.”
Perhaps trouble is all I’ve ever been. “It would have been easier if I was more sensible, like Reed.”
She tsk s. “Reed is too sensible for his own good. He could learn a thing or two from you, frankly. We all can. Darling, you’re exactly who you’re meant to be. Yourself. We’ve all made missteps, and the best of us learn from them. You need to give yourself more credit. So does your brother.”
It’s more than I ever expected to hear, and for a moment, all I can do is stare at the awful painted foam stuck on the wall while my heart does something complicated in my chest.
She stares at me the way only a mother can, with absolute authority. “I don’t see why you’re so intent on misreading how much we care about you. But that hasn’t stopped us yet, and love, nothing will.”
Perhaps. If I am guilty of getting it wrong, of only seeing what I was set on believing and nothing else, we’ve lost a lot of time.
To her credit, Mum quickly hides her surprise when I hug her, pressing a gentle squeeze to my shoulders before pulling back. As a kindness, I won’t bring up the tears in her eyes. “Thank you,” I say. “I needed to hear that.”