“She’s…dying.”
My face falls as my lips part faintly, my other hand reaching up to my mouth in disbelief as I study his features. Finally, I see a twitch between his eyebrows, a sign of something. How he’sfeeling. His jaw clenches as he swallows, and his knee starts to bounce as he processes the words he says next.
“She’s in liver failure,” he grits out between his teeth, and that’s when I realize he’s ready to burst at the seams because he’s angry. I’ve never seen him angry. “And she called me because…she wants me to see if I’m a candidate for a living donor transplant. Because she doesn’t have time to wait on the transplant list for a n-newone.”
Oh, Tate.
He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, but right now, it looks like every fragment of his being is alive with anger. The sight makes me so sad that my eyes start to water. I can’t begin to understand what he’s feeling, but I canbehere. At least so he’s not alone in the process.
Pushing up from the bed, his large frame starts to pace back and forth in front of the TV, and all I can do is stare up at him, biting at my lip.
“All these years…” he growls into his fist as he paces, “she’s been a drunk a-all these years, and never once did she need me. Now that she’s killed her liver,nowshe needs me?”
I want to reach out, grab his wrist, stop him, but I don’t. He needs to get this out.
He’s running his hands through his hair, fisting it slightly before flinging his arms up in frustration and letting them fall to his sides. “Where was she when I neededher?”
Something inside my chest squeezes so tight, I have to fight the gasp that threatens to leave my lips, the sob crawling up my throat. Seeing him so broken like this makes nausea roll inside my stomach. No one should feel like that. No one should go through what he’s gone through, and I don’t even know the half of it.
“Where was she when that…t-thatloserfrom down the street gave me a black eye for the first time? Or the fifth? Or the fuckingtenthtime?” His voice cracks, and I stare wide-eyed up at him, stunned by all this. His revelations, his cussing, all of it.
When a tear rolls down his cheek, my chin wobbles as my eyes start to burn. It’s not my turn to cry, though, I can’t cry. Not when this isn’t my trauma. My experiences. I hold my breath to keep the sob at bay.
“Where was she? Oh, yeah. T-that’s right. She was too high or drunk to even pay attention to her own son.”
My tears dry up as I notice the way his chest heaves shakily, bobbing quickly like he can’t catch his breath, and the way he’s fidgeting everywhere. Like he’s about to burst. A panic attack is bubbling just under his surface, and I know I need to intervene somehow.
“O-Or the broken ribs that healed on their own because no one would take me to the hospital? Where was she when I hadthose?” he whines. “All I ever wanted was my mom; all the time, Ineededher. I was little and scared and a-alone. And now…”
Tate shakes his head, like he’s trying to shake the thoughts away.
“Tatum,” I say softly, standing up and holding out my hands, like I’m trying to cage a wild animal. “Tatum, look at me, please.”
He immediately does, his head lifting as he stares at me, his eyes red and his chest bobbing up and down so harshly, I’m worried if he can breathe at all.
“I’m sorry,” he croaks, his voice cracking as more tears fall down his cheeks. His dark eyes widen a little, like he’s just realized everything he’s just said. “Jesus, Maeve…I’m so sorry.”
When my hands finally find his arms, squeezing him gently, I’m shaking my head. “You have nothing to be sorry for, do you hear me? You’re allowed to feel this way.”
“I d-didn’t mean to just unload on you like that.” He tries to reach up and run his fingers through his hair again, but I stop him, holding his arms by his sides.
“Tate,” I whisper, “this is kind of a big deal. I think I would be more concerned if you didn’t care at all.”
“I wish Ididn’tcare at all.”
“I know,” I say.
The crease between his brow softens, but only because his face is falling in realization. Realization that if he can’t help somehow, his mom is going to die. The woman who neglected him all his life is going to die, and now that’s on his shoulders too.
I want to take all this away for him, but I don’t know how.
It’s quiet for a few moments as he just breathes, and I continue to hold him steady, ready to catch him if I need to. Even though I know I won’t be much help for his six-foot-three frame.
“My mom is dying,” Tate rasps.
“Yes.”
His face scrunches up as he says the words out loud, and his head drops to his chest as his shoulders sag. His entire body almost folds in on itself, but I catch him as he goes to crumble, his face smashing into the crook of my neck as we fall onto the edge of the mattress, and my arms wrap around his broad shoulders, holding him there.
