It would be laughable if it didn’t needle a nerve.
Halfway from my car to the coffee truck, I spy Robert’s mum, Maryann, and before I can screech to a halt on the gravel, she waves at me.
I’m stuck. There’s no escape.
When I get closer, it’s clear the woman has been crying. She’s got red-rimmed eyes and a sad smile on her face. She leaps to her feet and pulls me into a tight hug. “Oh, love. Isn’t it awful?” She flexes her arms around me before she stands back. “What an absolute mess.”
Yes, if you mean your son writing about my relationship with my father and my career sport in a national publication, and then ghosting me… I’d say that’s quite the mess. Yes, indeedy.
It’s not what I say, but it’s on the tip of my tongue.
“He won’t talk to me. Won’t talk to our Emma. Won’t talk to anyone.” She shrugs. “Have you had any luck with him?”
I snort.
She gives my hand a squeeze. “Last I heard he was trying to get them to print a retraction.”
“Of his own article?”
She makes a noise that doesn’t sound too unlike my snort. “He didn’t write that bollocks.”
Something stirs in my chest as she confirms my suspicions. “He didn’t?”
Maryann meets my eyes with an intensity I’ve seen from her son. “No, love. He didn’t. But he should be the one to tell you himself.” She shakes her head. “Chicken shit, just like his father. Couldn’t face a confrontation if his life depended on it. Disappears into the sand when things get even the slightest bit stressful.” She wags her finger at me. “Don’t you let him away with it, Rhiannon. You have my full permission to go throw a rugby ball at his thick skull until he talks to you.” She mutters something about how the world would dissolve if men had to endure periods.
It feels good to laugh. “I hadn’t thought about throwing a ball at him.”
“I’m sorry you have to chase him down. I swear I raised him better than this. He’s like a deer in headlights when things don’t go the way he expects them to. He comes around eventually, but…” She pats my hand again. “It’s not exactly fair on you to make you wait either, is it?”
I shake my head, a lump springing to my throat and tears filling my eyes.
She gives a firm nod. “Go kick his arse, love. And once you’ve done that, clip him ’round the ear and tell him to answer the phone to his poor mother.” She digs around in her bag and pulls a key off a key ring. “You’ll need this. Sully said he’s not answering the door. Not even for a food delivery.”
I stare at the piece of metal. “I think it’s breaking and entering.”
“You have a key.” She shrugs. “Wellness check. And if hewasn’t being such a ginormous chicken shit and faced his problems, we wouldn’t need to take such drastic measures.”
I’m not sure she’s being entirely fair to her son. He has historically suffered from mental health issues, and once even tried to commit suicide. Now that she’s said he’s been quiet, withdrawn, and not talking to anyone, there’s a sinking feeling in my stomach about the man, who under all my bluster and anger, I love.
Is he okay?
“I think you’re being too hard on him, Maryann.”
She waves her hand. “I don’t know about that, love. I understand he suffers from depression, but he’s been doing better. He can’t just bury his head under a blanket every time something happens in life that he doesn’t like.”
I like his mum; I like her a lot. But she and I definitely don’t see eye to eye on matters of mental health. There’s a reason it’s called a silent killer.
Fuck. I’ve spent the last couple of days pissed at Robert for ghosting me after using me for his big news story, for pulling away because I’m toxic, for being the cause of the problem and leaving me to fend for myself… but what if it’s more than that?
“I’m going to go pay him a visit.” I wiggle the key at her. “I’ll bring him some hot chocolate and see if I can’t get him to come back into the world.”
She makes another comment under her breath as I make my way to order drinks at the counter. I grab a couple of traybakes too, just in case he hasn’t eaten and needs a quick sugar hit.
I have no idea what I’m going into as I drive back down the coastal road to Robert’s. I can only hope with every breath I take that he’s still breathing when I get inside the house.
I almost slam on the brakes, swerving my car at the thought. I’d love to say it’s not where my mind goes, but panic drives me forward faster and faster as my heart tripsover itself to keep up. He wouldn’t have hurt himself, would he?
A sob lodges itself in my throat as I pull up outside Robert’s house and abandon my car like it’s stolen. Sully’s sitting in his car, parked up on the footpath with a surly expression on his face. Gone is the usual jovial, upbeat jokester, replaced by a concerned best friend.
