Chapter 4
Riley
“Well, this looks familiar,” I grunt, walking into the kitchen the following morning. My mother is seated at the table, in the same spot she had been last night, with two mugs of coffee in front of her. Again.
I wonder if there’s Baileys in there today.
She shrugs, meeting my gaze with tired eyes. “Did you think we were done?”
I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face. “Guess not.”
“Have a seat,” she says, sliding a mug towards me.
I pull out the chair and lower myself into it, noting the creaking of the old wood under my weight.
“What do you want to know now?” The mug is warm in my hands, and I let the heat seep into me, soothing my frayed nerves.
“Where the hell have you been all this time, and why didn’t you come home sooner?”
“You mean you don’t know?” I ask wryly.
She shrugs again. “I know you did four of your eight years and were paroled for good behavior. I know you stayed in the city for another two years until the parole board released you from their supervision.” She pauses, eyeing me sadly. “That still leaves a decade unaccounted for.”
Now that I’m home, it truly is wild to think I’ve been gone that long. I’ve been away almost as long as I lived here.
But I had more than one reason to stay away.
Steph.
Thinking of her now brings that familiar ache back to my chest, and I absently rub at the spot over my heart. It’s a feeling I’ve struggled against for almost half my life. The longing. The regret.
At times, I thought I’d managed to leave her in the past, to relegate her to a sweet memory from another time. But despite my best efforts, she never strayed far from my mind for very long. And I’ve damn well never been successful in pushing her from my heart.
She owns that and always will.
Seeing her last night, for the first time since I broke her—
It brought everything rushing back to the surface.
All the feelings I’ve tried in vain to bury.
And I’m dying to know about her, but also afraid to ask.
Despite how she’s hovered on the edges of my consciousness all these years, I’ve refrained from looking her up.
All but the one time, but once was enough.
Call it self-preservation. Call it whatever you want, but it was too painful to let myself go there.
It was hard enough imagining the life she’d built without me; I didn’t want to—couldn’t—know the reality of it.
I had managed to gather a few things last night, though. Enough to know maybe there’s still a chance.
Enough to know that I have to try.
No ring.
No date.
I’m psyching myself up to finally ask about her when my mother clears her throat, effectively pulling me from my thoughts. Glancing up, I find her staring at me, eyebrows raised expectantly.
Right. We were talking about where I’ve been.
I let out a sigh. “So, you didn’t have Jack tracking me this whole time?” I ask sarcastically.
I’m unsure how to feel about learning he’d been watching me back then.
Spying on me. On the one hand, I feel violated.
Even though their concern was entirely warranted, I’m angry they chose to creep around behind my back, watching and waiting to catch me in the act of fucking up my life.
I’m angry Jack didn’t confront me. Who knows what might have happened if he had? What could have been different—
Which brings me to the other hand. It’s kinda fucked up, but I’m actually touched that he went to so much trouble.
I know he would do anything for my mother, but I can’t help feeling there was genuine worry for me on his part as well.
They were trying to help me. Putting things in place to get me into a program.
Given my headspace back then, I know their efforts would not have been well received, but I have enough distance from that time in my life now to look back at it all and wish they hadn’t been too late.
Do I wish I’d been strong enough to resist going down that path in the first place? Of course. But I’ve long since stopped letting my mind wander to that particular ‘what if.’
My mom is silent for a long time, digesting my question—or perhaps the tone—and I feel like shit for giving her any attitude.
God knows I’ve likely been the source of enough grief in her life, and I have no right to cause any more.
I watch her as she casts her gaze around the room, for a moment unable to look at me.
When she finally meets my eyes again, the sadness in hers feels like a dagger to the chest.
“No,” she says quietly. “At that point, it was clear you weren’t coming home.
And I knew it would only hurt me more every time I got an update about your whereabouts because it wasn’t here, with your family.
You had your reasons for staying away, and I knew I had to let you go.
I just prayed one day you’d find your way back. And that you wouldn’t return to drugs.”
I shake my head. “I never did. My only vice these days is whiskey, and the occasional beer,” I promise her.
She nods in acknowledgment. “I was wondering about that. Is it a good idea for you to be drinking alcohol?”
“I know many recovery programs warn against it. That drinking can be a slippery slope for some with drug abuse problems.” I shrug. “For me, it’s never been an issue.”
She opens her mouth to speak, but I hold up a hand to continue.
“I avoided it for the first few years after I got out,” I say.
“First, because I was still on probation, and then later because I was being cautious. But eventually, I did learn that I could manage a few drinks in moderation and be fine. I rarely drank back when I was using, so maybe that has something to do with it? I don’t know.
Maybe there’s a separation in my mind between the two …
?” I trail off, shaking my head with a chuckle.
“I just know it’s not a problem for me.”
She offers me a small smile. “Well, that’s good to hear.”
I wait for her to look up, making a point to hold her gaze when she does, before I say, “I’ve been clean for a long time, Mom. I’m good. I promise.”
“You look good,” she reluctantly agrees, then shoots me a wry smile. “A little scruffy, but I think I like the beard.”
“Yeah?” I ask, rubbing the bristles on my chin.
“Yeah.” I watch as her smile morphs slowly into a grin, and I can’t help but give her one in return. “But you could use a haircut.”
I huff out a laugh. “I know.”
We’re both silent for a moment, taking each other in. I appreciate her effort to lighten the mood after such a heavy discussion, and it doesn’t escape me that I still haven’t answered her question. There’s something I need to say to her first, though. Something long overdue.
My smile wanes as I work up the courage to finally utter those three simple words.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I say quietly, meeting her eyes once more. I hope she can hear the sincerity in my voice—see it in my eyes.
Sorry.
A word that encompasses a multitude of transgressions, in my case. And one I know will never be enough. Not nearly enough. It’s all I can offer her at the moment, but I’m determined to show her. I’m going to be better. Be the son she deserves. I’m going to make it up to her and to everyone I love.
“I know,” she says again, reaching across the table to pat my hand. “I know, son.”
And then we share another smile, but this one is softer.
And I feel it.
Forgiveness.
“It’s good to have you home, Riles.”
“It’s good to be home.”
“Ihave a question.”
“Okay, go ahead.”
After breakfast—one I’d whipped up while telling my mom all about my time working as a short-order cook at a diner in Texas—we’d moved out to the back porch.
While the sun has climbed steadily higher in the sky, I’ve shared tales of my vagabond existence, never staying in one place for much more than a year and working many varied jobs.
And my mom has been surprisingly curious, even at times amused by my stories.
She sure had a good chuckle when I described my boss at the alligator farm where I’d worked briefly in Louisiana, and the kooky patrons of the alien museum in New Mexico, too.
I also told her about harvesting grapes in Napa Valley and how I was on a road construction crew in Sacramento.
I did club promotion in LA and residential construction in upstate New York.
I was a bouncer in Vegas and even trained for search and rescue in a remote town in Northern Washington that had a program working with ex-cons.
There were many more jobs in many other states, from big cities to small towns.
I feel a little sad, reliving it now, being home and thinking about the transient nature of my life.
Sure, it was fun for a while—especially after my incarceration.
Once I’d completed my parole, I was desperate to move.
To celebrate my freedom. To get the hell out of the place, the city, that had been my downfall.
I guess you could say I had wanderlust, though it wasn’t inspired by anything so guileless as a need for adventure.
Instead, I suspect after those first few years following my release, my need to move from place to place continuously stemmed more from my desire to avoid my past than anything else.
I was running from my problems and have been for a long time now.
And yeah, it was a life filled with interesting characters and many new challenges.
But it was a lonely life, too. I’m only now realizing how much.
No more, though.