I shake my head. “No, he doesn’t drink often.”
Something in my expression must shift because he pauses. Really looks at me. “Is there a particular reason why?”
My chest tightens—not enough for me to panic, but enough to warn me I’m close to something I usually keep sealed shut.
I don’t talk about my mom.
Not with friends. Not with family. Not with anyone except my therapist.
That’s how I’ve learned to stay functional. To keep myself steady when everything else feels like it might tip. Avoidance isn’t weakness; it’s how I survived. Someone had to stay calm and steady.
That someone became me.
But Silas is different.
From the moment I met him—even when we were just friends—there was something about him that quieted the noise in my head. Being around him felt easy. Calm. Like I didn’t have to brace myself for whatever came next.
And over the past few weeks, that feeling has only deepened.
He’s become my safe space. The person my body relaxes around before my brain can catch up. Someone I know I can talk to without being rushed or fixed or dismissed. He’s proven that over and over again—not with promises, but with the way he shows up. With patience. With consistency. With listening.
Somewhere along the way, my feelings caught on to what my nervous system already knew.
I trust him.
If we’re going to make a real go at this—atus—then he needs to understand what he’s stepping into. Because the truth is, my anxiety isn’t something I’ll ever completely outgrow. I just manage it better than most people realize.
I clear my throat, glancing at him. “Do you know anything about my family? Like, maybe overheard things?”
He shakes his head. “Not really. I remember hearing some murmuring about one of the games, but I wasn’t here yet, and I just didn’t think it was a good idea to ask.”
That only confirms it.
I inhale slowly, grounding myself the way I’ve practiced a hundred times. This isn’t spiraling. This is choosing.
“Beck definitely wouldn’t have talked to anyone on the team about it other than Casey and Coach, but, yeah, my mom showed up to one of his games unexpectedly.” I suck in a deep breath. “It just so happens that Beck and I were born in Pennsylvania, where the game was. She had been in jail and was out on parole. She can’t leave the state to try to see us, and she’s not legally allowed within a certain distance from us.”
“Can I ask what happened to cause her arrest, or do you not want to talk about it?” He places his hands on the table.
“It’s not something I usually talk about, but you should probably know.”
“We can talk about it later. I don’t want to upset you. I want us to have good memories from this weekend.” He reaches for my hand across the table.
I take a sip of my wine with my other hand, then take a deep breath. “I don’t remember a lot about her. Just images and faint memories. Most of what I do know comes from things I’ve heard in court or my dad and brother talking.”
“Did she hurt you guys?” He rubs his thumb along the back of my hand.
I nod. “Yes, she did. She was an alcoholic. And apparently, she didn’t start drinking heavily until after I was born. My dad has never said anything to insinuate this, but I’ve kind of always felt like I was the reason she did the things she did to us. She hurt Beck more than me really, but he would protect me, and unfortunately, he was the recipient of most of her abuse.”
The words settle between us—heavy, vulnerable, real.
And for once, I don’t feel alone, carrying them.
“I’m so sorry, Brooke. You don’t have to say anything else about it.” He sits up enough to scoot his chair next to me.
“No, it’s okay. The things that happened to my brother are horrific, and honestly, I will spare you most of the details. But I do remember the day she was arrested.”
I look at Silas’s face. “I had been playing and trying to be quiet, but something I did must have set her off because, one minute, I was playing with my toys, and the next minute, she was yanking my hair and pulling me over to the stove. Beck was in the other room, working on homework or something, and came running in to see me being dragged across the floor. He fought with her until she let go of me, but then she was able to hold him long enough to put his hand in hot oil in a pan on the stove. I remember the smell of something burning, and I tugged on my mom’s legs to let him go.”
