She huffs in disbelief.
I tilt my head. “Wait, that’s what you think I’m doing? Hiding you? You think I’m ashamed of whatever this is?”
She shrugs, but she won’t look at me. The truth is, maybe I should be ashamed. People will judge us for this, without a doubt. Turns out, I just don’t give a fuck.
“Sorrow.”
She rolls her eyes but eventually looks up at me. I do what I wanted to do the second she rolled back into town. I lower my mouth to hers and kiss her.
Chapter Nineteen
SORROW
His words hurt me, but his lips heal me in a way I never knew they could. I grip his arms and hold on tight as everything around us fades away.
No more cold stares or nasty whispers that make me want to crawl under a rock. The only reason I stuck it out here for so long is because I didn’t want to go home, and I figured this was the last place he’d look for me.
As his hand slides into the back of my hair, anchoring me in place, I think about the last time I was kissed. It was nothing like this. I should have known then what a red flag that was.
When he pulls back, I see no regret in his eyes as he searches mine for the same. I don’t know how I feel. My head and heart are warring factions, each aware of how bad things could get.
He must see the panic building because he sighs and presses his lips to my forehead. “Let them talk. I don’t care. People can say and think what they want. Right now, the only people who get a say, in whatever this is, is us. If you need a minute to process that,I get it.But baby, this is happening.”
But baby, this is happening. What, the fuck?
An hour ago, I wanted to kick him in the dick. Now, well, there are lots of things I want to do with his dick, but kicking it is not one of them. I need to get out of here. I need space to think.
“Go. I get it, but don’t expect me to stay away for long.”
I huff but grab my bag and scoot around him before he changes his mind and tries to stop me. My cheeks feel like they’re on fire as I walk through the gauntlet of people openly staring at me. By the time I get to the door, my embarrassment has given way to my anger. I turn around, and sure enough, everyone’s eyes are on me.
I raise my hand and flip everyone off before spinning around. With a flip of my hair, I walk out to the sound of Banner roaring with laughter.
Instead of heading back, I make my way down to the water and sit out on the dock, watching the water lap at the shore. Nobody bothers me out here, and after an hour of peace, I finally feel ready to head back.
When I pull up to the house, Banner’s truck is not there. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with all that yet. I want to push it all down in a box in my brain with everything else I’ve been too chickenshit to deal with. But the box is overflowing. Hell, maybe it’s time to start processing shit before I end up like my mom.
I stand in the freshly painted living room and look around, wondering where to start. Considering I grew up here, I’ve always felt like a stranger in my own home. Maybe if I started clearing it out, throwing away the stuff I don’t want or need, I would feel better about it all.
I glance up at the ceiling. The logical place to start is my old room, but I can’t bring myself to do that yet. But my mom’s room? There’s no emotional attachment there.
Okay, Sorrow, you can do this.
I walk upstairs like I’m walking to the gallows. I press my hand to her door, take a deep breath, and push it open.
I don’t know what I was expecting. With the police search, I figured everything would be all over the place. Maybe it was to start with, but someone has been up here and tried to contain the chaos. The curtains are open, letting in the late afternoon light. I can see from the clutter-free dresser that it’s been given a wipe down. The bed had been made, the pink rose bedspread smoothed out, and the matching pillows plumped. In the center of the bed are knick-knacks and random things. I’m guessing the person who cleaned in here had no clue where anything went, so they left these for me to deal with.
Spotting a wooden box, about the size of a shoe box, I walk over to it and smooth my fingers over the carved roses on top. Somebody made this. I wonder if it was given to my mother by the person who carved it or if she purchased it at a thrift store. I pick it up and walk over to the closet, tugging the wonky door open. Inside are a few dresses hanging from a rail, along with an assortment of pants and sweaters.
I’m hit with the faint smell of roses, and it makes me jerk back. I forgot about her perfume. More times than not, she smelled of cigarettes and alcohol, and—more often than not—vomit. But on the days she was lucid, when she woke up wanting more from life before she gave in by lunch, she smelled like roses. I don’t know what perfume it was, but it was the only one she ever wore. I can’t believe I forgot about it.
I swallow, realizing I can’t do this. Not yet. I hurry out of the room, closing the door behind me. I carry the box down to the living room, place it on the table, and stare at it for a minute, wondering if it’s booby trapped.
I know I’m being dramatic, but God, I never expected this to be so hard. She didn’t love me. And I didn’t love her. Right?
As I sit on the couch and the tears slip free, I think maybe I did love her. Sometimes a little bit, sometimes a lot, but it was never enough to make her love me back. I never knew my dad. He was dead before my first core memory kicked in. She should have loved me enough for both of them. Instead, she was incapable of even loving herself.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I lift the box onto my lap and open the lid. It’s filled with letters and photographs. I pick one up. A dark-haired man leans against an old truck with a younger version of my mother wrapped around him. Her smile is one I’ve never seen in real life and shows every ounce of love she had for the man beside her.
