And I know, okay? I know this isn’t new. I know this has happened before. There are always missed birthdays, canceled holidays, that time she forgot to show up to my high school graduation because her salon appointment ran longer than she intended.
I know better than to be surprised.
But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. It sure as shit doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel like someone shoved their hand into my chest and twisted.
There’s this dull, aching throb beneath my ribs. It’s this deep, gnawing sense of being left behind, of being less than, of knowing she’s sipping overpriced wine with some loser who hates me while I lay here trying not to cry like a kid who doesn’t get why his mom won’t come home.
It feels fucking pathetic.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes hard enough that stars burst behind my lids. I try to take slow, careful breaths through my nose.
In. Out. In. Out.
I figure it’s a good way to trick my body into thinking that everything is normal. That I am completely okay. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. I. Am. Fine.
But I’m not.
And the worst part? I feel stupid for even feeling this way.
Because I’m grown. I have a future, friends who love me, a fucking med school acceptance letter sitting on my desk.
But none of that makes this suck less.
None of that fills the gap left by a mom who never really wanted to be one.
And yeah, I swore I stopped crying over her when I was sixteen. Swore I’d never let her make me feel like this again.
But right now?
Right now, that sixteen-year-old version of me feels a little too close to the surface.
And fuck, it still fucking hurts.
10
Griffin
“So…did you get anything out of Hughie?”
That’s the question Mack fires at me while we’re sprawled on the couch with controllers in hand, a half empty pack of beer on the coffee table, and the TV blasting whatever racing game he’s currently obsessed with.
And honestly, the way Mack the question should’ve been easy to answer. But it’s not, and I can tell because even before I open my mouth, the words feel like they’re stuck under a heavy weight in my chest.
Because I didn’t get anything out of Hughie that had anything to do with the fight with Connelly. Hell, I didn’t even try to talk about the fight or what caused those two to be at odds.
What actually kept me awake that night wasn’t the punch. It was the look Hughie gave me when he said we weren’t friends anymore. It was the way his voice and his eyes carried this quiet hurt that I’d been too naive to realize was there until he just said it out loud.
That was the part that mattered. I could honestly give a fuck about Connelly when I realized that I had been such a fucking horrible friend.
“No,” I finally say, without taking my eyes off the screen. “He didn’t say much.”
Mack shrugs, not even looking at me, still focused on making his car drift. “That’s not abnormal. Sam Connelly blew out of the arena and wouldn’t answer my texts.”
And yeah, that’s a very Connelly thing to do. At least lately all he does is disappear, avoid contact, and pretend like nothing in the world fucking matters. But I don’t say that out loud. I’ve never been one to hide my general distaste for the guy behind polite language, but right now? I’m actively choosing not to be That Guy.
Because team. And also because this whole thing is already a complicated emotional minefield and I’m not about to add commentary about fleabag teammates to it.
Instead, I take another swig of my beer and nod slowly.
