I don’t know how to reply, or if I even should. I came to Florida to put space between us. I feel shitty about leaving her tosift through the mess we made together, but I can’t let her anchor herself to me again.
Back in March, before spring break, before everythingreallywent to hell, I sat my mom down and told her Whitney and I had broken up. She was shocked. She loves Whit, and she loves Whit’s family.
“You two were so happy,” she said, taking my hand in both of hers. We were at the table in our tiny kitchen. She’d just gotten off a shift and hadn’t yet changed out of her scrubs.
“Werebeing the operative word,” I said.
“Oh, Henry. I’m sorry.”
I pulled free of her grasp, putting a mug of steaming tea in her hands instead. I love my mom a lot, but her sympathy wasn’t helping.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
I wasn’t. I was a walking contradiction. Sad but thankful. Relieved but pissed. Free but somehow still obligated.
Whitney 4:40 p.m.
Your mom misses you.
Henry 4:42 p.m.
I’ve barely been gone a day.
Whitney 4:43 p.m.
I miss you.
4:57 p.m.
Henry?
Henry 5:00 p.m.
Yeah—sorry. I’m with my dad. You know how it is.
Whitney 5:01 p.m.
Not really. Let me know when you’ve got time to talk.
She doesn’t text again after that. I open our thread a dozen times over the course of the night, trying to figure out how to fix this for her. If I should. If Ican.
I don’t reengage.
After Dad leaves for the restaurant, I dial Mom. She answers with, “Whitney texted.”
“I know. Sorry. I texted her back.”
“Henry.”
“Mom. What am I supposed to do?”
She sighs. She’s at work. The sounds of the NICU are unmistakable. “I don’t know. It’s a fine line you’re walking.”
“Yeah.”
She says my name again, less admonishingly. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through. I’m sorry Whitney’s become a source of discord.”
