“Yes, that too,” I admit.
I move my hand along my thigh, reaching for the memory of his hand trailing along that same path. The ache of him being inside me. The weight of his body, and the strength in his hands as he positioned me wherever he wanted. The way I let him.Gah!
My sister ends our call when she overhears the sudden knock at my door. I clear my throat as I toss my phone to the bed and open the door to my mother.
“I was going through my clothes, and I thought maybe you’d like a few of these things. You know, for when . . . just whenever.” She hands me three garments wrapped in plastic, one of them a pale pink pantsuit that I can’t imagine ever putting on my body. I blink at it a few times, then hook the hangers on my thumb.
“Thanks. Maybe.”
Probably not.
I move to the closet and slide the broken door open a few inches, just enough to push the hangers through the crack. They slide in, between the door and the stack of boxes inside. I turn back around to meet my mom’s gaze and pursed lips.
“If you don’t want them, you could just say so,” she says, folding her arms over her chest.
I chew at the tip of my tongue, imagining the version where I say exactly that and throw the garments back at her.
“I might want them,” I lie instead. It feels gross. “I don’t know, I just have a lot of work to do in here. I need to clear out some old stuff. I should really get to it.”
I step toward her, toward the door, but she doesn’t budge. She’s comfortable, standing with one foot in my room, her body leaning against the jam, her face full of judgement. As if that’s the way this should go. Her judging me.Ha!
“Anything else?” I hold on to the edge of the door, giving her one more context clue.
Please leave now.
“Yes. One thing,” she says.
I exhale, and she does the same, partly to mock me, I’m sure. Our eyes meet.
“Remember that there are two of us in this relationship,” she says.
I shake with a single silent laugh.
“I don’t mean me and you, though that truth works between us as well. I mean me and your dad. There are two people making decisions about this relationship, Renleigh. It’s not always me deciding to stay or go.”
She hits me with a hard stare that feels invasive, and I find myself wrapping my free arm around my midriff to ward off her invasion. What is that cryptic shit supposed to mean? And duh, I know there are two of them. I know he takes her back. And fine, maybe I should assign some of the blame his way and let him hear my piece, too. But what can I say/ I’m a daddy’s girl. I’m always going to pick his side, even when he won’t.
She backs out of my room after several seconds pass without a reaction from me, and I shut my door again the moment she’s cleared the doorway.
My body is buzzing with frustration, and the pent-up anger borders on hurt. My eyes burn while I force myself not to cry. Instead, I pour every ounce of my focus into hauling boxes of worthless memorabilia, along with grade school report cards and childhood toys from my old closet, and into the garage so I have enough room to live here as a grown-up.
On my final return trip from the garage, I catch a glimpse of my father practicing his balance in the center of his makeshift room. His walker is right there, the grips within inches of his fingers so he can catch himself. His body quivers from the exertion of his muscles as he stands for several seconds at a time without help, and it makes my chest hurt.
I want to celebrate this moment. I want to congratulate him and urge him to keep going. He’s working so hard. But I’m afraid he’s doing it for false promises, and that’s what’s killing me. I know it in my gut. He thinks if he can just get back to normal, if he can walk on his own, climb the stairs to his old bedroom—where she is—that this time, she’ll stay.
In the gambling world, they call that throwing good money after bad.
I shut my eyes and draw in a deep breath, forcing myself to leave this moment alone. I can let him have this. I can suspend my jaded heart for his sake, at least for one day. It’s not hurting him. If anything, it’s driving him to get stronger.
I manage to make it back to my room without opening my big mouth, but the burn in my chest is still searing.
And Hunter Reddick is calling me.
From the road.
I stare at his name in my phone, every nerve ending in my body lighting up with the memory of his touch. He’s an escape. And maybe I deserve to be happy, too. At least for a little while.
“Hey,” I murmur, holding the phone close to my ear, cupping the device as if it will somehow shelter this conversation and keep it a secret.
