She's not slamming the door in my face, but she's not softening either. "And are you still talking to—"
"No," I croak, shaking my head desperately, knowing exactly who she's talking about. "No. No, that's... done. For good."
She stares at me, that gaze that can see right through me, and lets me stew in it. She looks at me like I'm a stranger, like whatever part of her that was proud of me is dead and gone. It hurts, and I have to avert my eyes to say the next words.
"I'm in therapy. I'm trying to... I'm trying to change, Ma."
A brief flicker on her face, her eyebrow raises slightly, and the angry, tight line of her mouth softens. Just a little.
"I fucked it all up," I whisper pathetically, "I fucked up my life. Me, only me. I need to figure out why. I need to get better. I just... I want to come home," my voice cracks, and suddenly Ifeel like a child again, needing my mom, my dad. Needing a soft place to land.
Not that I deserve it.
The silence stretches before she asks, "Where have you been staying?"
"Southport."
"Lord in Heaven," she hisses at the name of the motel, the place having a particular reputation in town. She sighs, shaking her head before stepping to the side. "Come on."
Relief hits me so fast I feel dizzy. Until she snaps, voice sharp, "Don't mistake me pitying you for staying in that flea-infested motel as me forgiving you. We’ve got a ways to go before that happens, Paul Francis."
I nod my head, having expected this, and quickly rush inside my warm home. The comforting scent hits me, and I barely resist the urge to cry.
"I know, Ma—"
"No, you don't know," she slams the front door closed.
In the doorway of the kitchen, my dad appears, arms crossed and expression unreadable. My mom showed more outward signs of disappointment, words hissed and clipped, but my dad could scare you straight by his looming presence and sharp glare. They were a perfect team to get me to confess when I got detention in school.
"Dad."
"Paul," his voice is flat, curt, and unimpressed, and it makes me wince.
"You hungry?" my mother asks from the hallway, already walking toward the kitchen without waiting for my answer.
Following her directions, I grab platters of food and bring them to the dinner table. My dad grabs silverware and a plate from the kitchen and sets up my spot. It's not warmth, it's notforgiveness, it's not anything but basic decency, but after drifting for so long, it feels nice.
Not home, but no longer in exile.
An hour later, I’m full of my mother’s food, and I've informed my parents of my current situation—work suspension, friends not talking to me, Elise and the apartment, and the lies. Their expressions grow increasingly dismayed, darkening with every word I say. Like me, they can't believe the mess I've made of my life.
Mom sighs, "So, no work for two months?"
"Yes."
"Jesus H. Christ," my dad mutters, crumbling up the napkin in his hand. I don't think I can shrink anymore in my seat, feeling like a scolded child.
Then, the curiosity has been eating at me for too long, and I open my mouth and almost ruin it.
"How's Soph—"
"Paul Francis," she snaps, slapping her hand down on the table and rattling the silverware. She points her finger at me, "Youbetterhear me, and youbetterhear me well—you do not get to ask about Sophie. You don't get to say her name. As a matter of fact, I don't even want you to think about her. You gave up that right the moment you broke her."
I open my mouth, but she silences me with a look so fierce it chills me down to my bones.
"She is healing," she continues, her voice trembling now—not with rage, but with the desperate protectiveness of a mother. Sophie is more her daughter than I am her son right now. I deserve that, and I can admit I am truly glad that they rallied around Sophie. "She is rebuilding herself, piece by piece. And you? You don't get to knock those pieces down again.I won't let you. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, ma'am."
