Or maybe life broke her in different ways than it’s broken me.
It’s not an excuse. Or even a place of common ground.
Life has broken me over and over again, but unlike her, every time I stand up and choose love. I protect the people I care about, even when it’s dangerous. If the worst were to happen, and I ended up locked in that horrible estate forever, a string of kids forced from my body, I know that wouldn’t change.
I’d fight for my kid, not against them. I’d love them and try my best to lift them up instead of beat them down.
Like the woman in the photo album, creating moments of joy for the most vulnerable people in her life, I’d protect them the only way I could, with laughter, and dancing, and eventually, if necessary, my own body.
So when I look at my mom, her blonde curls tangled around her face as she gives up fighting against Trips, I feel nothing but pity.
How small a life, so empty of anything actually important. Devoid of mutual love and respect. Hollow.
I turn away from her and hand my dad the battered envelope. “Think about it,” I beg. “Please.”
He’s already shaking his head, and the pity spreads. That could have been me if I’d stayed with Bryce. Thank God I took him at his word when he kicked me out.
When I leave the unfamiliar apartment, my hands shake, but my eyes stay dry.
They’re adults. They get to make their own choices. The same as I’ve made mine.
Chapter 35
Jansen
Thanksgiving sucked.
There are no other words for it.
I went home and Evie refused to talk to me—my mom had no idea how to fix it. Honestly, I think my mom assumed Evie didn’t like my makeover. I heard them whisper-shouting about it while I passed out on the couch after taking my pills.
Their fight didn’t fix anything, of course. And every time I tried to explain why Clara did what she did, Evie shut me down or walked away.
I hated it.
So, we had a silent, awkward dinner before I drove back to the Cities, not even staying the night. My mom called me while I was driving, trying to ask about my physical health in a carefully worded, circuitous manner, and I knew Evie had told her I’d been shot. Or at least majorly injured.
And I’d told her I was fine. That my meds seemed to help, even if I didn’t quite feel like myself and was tired a lot more often than I’m used to. Not what she asked, but what else was I supposed to say? I said nothing about my diaphragm, about the twinge of pain when I laugh, or cough, or run.
Twinge is probably an understatement.
I only wish I was all the way better already. Without my mind or my body at peak performance, I feel like nothing but a burden. Which is probably why I’m fixing up Black with all my free time. At least I’m useful in some way.
And even though the psychiatrist finally had an opening, I asked for my appointment to be pushed until January, afraid that it would lead the evil mastermind right to me. They said they’d put me on the waitlist, but it might be longer.
After years of fucking around with my health, I finally want to fix it, and I can’t. Which also sucks.
The meds hold tight like a net under my frustrations, keeping me from sinking into depression, and that sucks too. It’s like there’s a barrier between what I want to feel and what I can feel.
But then I remind myself, yet again, that the barrier is there for a reason. That near catatonia followed by a visit to a tower to see if I can fly is a good thing to have a barrier against.
Logically, I know that.
But the adjustment period is damn uncomfortable.
Black is dark when I get back, Fluffington mewing his frustration at being left as he bounds down the stairs at me. “Yeah, I know. But you’re not the biggest fan of other cats anymore, little man,” I say, scooping him onto my shoulders,the weight of him grounding as his tail twitches against my core.
We go to the kitchen, and I plop out some wet food, even though I know he’s already had a scheduled drop of kibble earlier today. It’s a holiday, for all it doesn’t feel like one.
