“Tate.” She squeezes my arm.
“It’s okay,” I say, putting my phone away.
I don’t have anything to say to her, anyway.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MAEVE
Saturday, December 25th
Tate may be putting on a normal face for everyone else, but I know something is off. His smile is still squinty and his dimples still deepen as he does, but it’s…off. There’s something that just isn’t right about it. Like it’s not reaching his eyes the way it normally does. Even his knee wouldn’t stop bouncing at dinner. No one else could see, but I did, and he only does that when he’s really anxious about something.
I feel so bad, I could throw up.
I can’t imagine how he’s feeling with his mom calling him on Christmas, of all days, to ask him for something when they haven’t spoken in so long. It’s such a cruel thing, and I wonder if she’s even aware that she’s doing this to him. I wonder if he’s ever told her. But it’s not my place to ask because I have no idea the extent of what he went through as a child. Those are his experiences alone, and only he can speak for them.
It isn’t until we’re heading upstairs for the night that I am finally able to talk to him.
As I step into my room, I hold the door open as I turn to look at him. He’s lingering by his own door, hands shoved in hispockets as he peers down at me. There’s something sad in his eyes, and it breaks my heart to see him like this.
“Come in?” I offer.
He doesn’t say anything, but he walks into my room anyway. My head swivels as it follows him, watching as he sits down on my bed, staring down at his hands resting on his thighs. Closing the door behind me, I wrap my arms around myself in a tight hug as I make my way over to him.
“Talk to me,” I whisper.
He frowns down at his hands. “I don’t…know. I don’t know what to say.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m…okay.” He doesn’t sound confident at all. He can’t even look at me as he says it, and I sigh weakly, my arms falling to my sides.
“No, you’re not.”
As his chin drops to his chest, I can’t stop myself from rushing over to him. Standing between his legs, I cradle his head against me, resting my chin on his hair as I hold him for a few seconds in silence. My chest rises and falls with each shaky breath.
“Haven’t talked to her in three years,” he mumbles after a while.
I lift my head from his as I frown down at his hair, biting at my lip to keep my chin from trembling. I don’t want to cry, not now, not when it’shimwho needsme. Not the other way around. I don’t want to make this about me.
“Last time we spoke, she wanted money. That’s the only time she calls… When she needs something from me.”
I can’t imagine how awful it must be to have a mother like that. Having a mother who doesn’t care about you. The thought makes my stomach feel uneasy, makes a heaviness settle on mychest. All I can picture in my head is little Tate, young and innocent with his big glasses, and?—
My eyes water at the thought.
“I’m sorry, Tate.”
His hands find my lower back as he rubs it slowly, back and forth, over and over. He’s the one who needs comforting, yet here he is, soothing me somehow.
“Your mom,” he says, and his voice sounds thick. “She’s nice. Normal.”
My eyes squeeze shut at that.
God, what do I do?
How do I make this better?
