Chapter Thirty-Seven Paul #4
We fall into a conversation that's stilted and awkward at first, but after a few beers, it's like muscle memory takes over—watching football, having drinks, sharing jokes.
Adriana asks frequent questions about the game that Chris always answers patiently, Maude curses the refs out with language that makes a couple of people glance over in shock, and I laugh harder than I have in a long time.
After a couple of hours, Chris pays the bill before anyone can argue, and I quickly Venmo him money for my drinks. I'm not drunk, not even buzzed, but I feel like I am. I feel lighter—both from the therapy session and from being accepted back into my friend group.
Is it deserved? Maybe not yet.
Will I continue to show them that I want to change? Absolutely.
"We'd better get home," Chris says, standing from the table and holding out Adriana's jacket for her to put on. He smiles at her and pulls her hood up over her curls, "There's a bad storm coming. Might last a couple of days."
I stand with them, walking to the door, and see that the rain has started. I wave to my friends as they walk to their car, before Chris' voice stops me, "Paul?"
I glance back to see all four of them looking at me. Chris nods,"I'll text you tomorrow."
Feeling something click back into place inside of me, I smile and nod my head, lifting my hand in a wave.
◆◆◆
Mom's in the kitchen making chilli, a Sunday tradition we've had since I was in diapers, when the lights flicker and then go out.
I glance up from my spot at the kitchen island, where my laptop sits open in front of me.
Job listings are still pulled up, the tabs cluttered with in-state and out-of-state positions.
I still have the option to return to work in December once my probation period ends, but I'm considering starting fresh somewhere other than Starling Cove.
Yesterday, I had sent an email to Joe—apologizing, taking accountability, and thanking him for the wakeup call—and I actually received a good response from it this morning.
But the thought of sitting at that same desk, walking the same hallways, seeing the same people who watched me implode my life. ..
Fucking hell.
A new beginning somewhere else sounds incredibly tempting, and maybe it is just what I need.
I don't even know what's left for me in this town, and I don't know if it's healthy for me to stay here, especially if I'm committed to changing and growing.
I don't really want to acknowledge that seeing Sophie and Callum around town will fucking hurt more than anything.
"Paul," my mom sighs, rummaging through the storage closet for candles. "Can you go get the generator set up?"
"Yeah," I nod immediately, standing from the chair. "Of course."
"Thank you," she says, her voice holding a lot more warmth than it has.
There's even a soft, tired smile on her face when she looks at me.
Throat tight, I return to the coat closet to grab my rain jacket and pull on my boots.
My dad's in New York for work, so I'm on my own setting up this generator.
Lightning and thunder crack overhead the moment I walk outside, and the rain comes down relentlessly on me. I'm instantly soaked as I jog over to the shed. This is going to fucking suck.
By the time the generator is up and running, I'm completely drenched. The warm air of my house is relieving as I hang up my wet coat and take off my muddy boots by the door.
"Thank you," my mom says when I walk back into the kitchen, grabbing a towel to dry my face. Her back is to me, stirring the chili in the crockpot. Even with the lights working again, she has a couple of candles still lit—just in case—and because she likes the cozy feel it gives the room.
"Ma?" I ask, my voice quiet.
"Hm?" she hums, not turning around but still listening.
"I'm sorry."
Her stirring pauses instantly, her whole body tensing, but I continue with this long-overdue apology. I apologized to her before, but I feel that was mostly out of desperation and a need for a soft place to land. This is me owning my shitty behavior to the woman who gave me life.
"You called me a 'shortsighted, immature little boy', and you were right.
I'm sorry for hurting Sophie, for hurting you, and for hurting Dad with my actions.
I hadn't even considered the fallout from my betrayal.
I broke our family, and I regret it. I regret it so much, and I will live in that regret for the rest of my life," I tell her, watching as the tension seems to ease from her shoulders.
"I want to be better. I want to make you proud of me again," my voice cracks clean in half at the last statement. I don't even fight the tears falling down my cheeks; it feels too good to let it out.
Thunder crashes overhead, but my mom doesn't even jump. She just takes a deep breath, puts down the spoon, and closes the lid of the crockpot.
She finally turns to me, and her eyes are red-rimmed and a little shiny with tears. "Come here."
I go to her.
The moment I'm close, she opens her arms, and I fall into them. A sob rips its way out of me, and she holds me close, rubbing my back as I cry and cry and cry into my mom's shoulder like I haven't since I was a kid with a skinned knee. It feels so good.
It's like being given a warm blanket after freezing for so long.
"You never stopped being my son," she whispers, pulling back to look me in the eye. She sighs and shakes her head, "I was disappointed, and I was so angry at you, then when you blamed me?"
I flinch, shamefully remembering my words from that night.
She shakes her head, her voice gentle when she continues, "But you were hurting too. We were so focused on Sophie that we didn't think about what you were going through. You were scared, and we didn't see it. For that, I'm sorry—"
"No," I interrupt immediately, shaking my head hard. "No, Ma. You don't get to take any blame here. I've... I've been doing a lot of work in therapy. It was me. It was all me. I had options. I had time. No one forced anything on me. I cheated. I made that choice. I own it."
Her eyes soften at that, something that looks like pride shining in them. "I never stopped loving you, Paul. I'm glad you finally realize the depth of the hurt you caused. I can see the changes you're making, and I do feel proud of you."
"Thank you," I sniffle into her shoulder, my breath hitching.
She presses a kiss to my forehead. "Go get changed, sweetheart. Chili's almost ready."
I nod and wipe my nose on my hoodie sleeve, feeling even lighter than I did yesterday as I head upstairs to my room. I pull on clean, dry clothes, and as I'm pulling on a pair of sweatpants, my phone vibrates on my bed.
I frown when I see that it's the hospital's caller ID.
Cold dread pools in my stomach as I answer, knowing whatever this is, it's not going to be good. My dad? Brian? Chris? Or...
Oh, God, please not her.
My thumb trembles as I swipe to answer. "H-Hello?"
"Hello, is this Paul O'Connor?"
"Yes," I say, voice weak and tightening with panic. "Yes, this is Paul."
"Hi, Paul," the man says gently. "This is Mike from St. Brigid's Medical Center. We have a patient here by the name of Sophie Bracken."
The floor drops out from under me. The world tilts. I feel dizzy and sick.
Sophie.
Sophie's in the hospital.
"Sophie—" I choke out.
"Yes," he continues softly. "We had her records from her oncologist sent over, and you're listed as her emergency contact."
I don't think. I don't hesitate. I'm already moving to grab my car keys.
"I'm on my way."