My nerves are shot but I’ll go wherever she goes, so I stand with her, following her as she pardons her way through the crowd. She catches sight of my aunt as she walks by and stops at a nearby window, her phone pressed to her ear, frown spoiling her smile. I glance over to see Uncle Thad with her as I pull Violet closer to the wall. He’s been the epitome of supportive all night, never leaving Aunt Bess’s side.
“Your aunt doesn’t look so well.”
Violet’s right. Aunt Bess’s face is morphed into an expression I don’t think I’ve ever seen on her face before. Is it anguish? Fear? I can’t tell for sure, but my body tenses from the looks of it.
From the stage, someone taps the microphone, causing a thud to come from the speakers. Apparently, ten minutes means five because it’s already silent auction time. There are no longer a few minutes left for Violet and me. There’s no private moment for us to steal that’ll help me get through the rest of the night.
We turn for the table with a sigh. I toss one more glance back at my aunt, but she’s already gone, no longer standing off to the side to take care of business as I curl an arm around Violet’s waist and guide her back, my stomach filled with the same stones I arrived with.
Everyone else gets the message and starts for their tables. Conversation winds down, people preparing to get out their checkbooks and give the organization the money it so desperately needs. The same money that will offer opportunities to those who are in a life and death game with addiction.
Once again, I’m back to wishing it was Mom here tonight, that she’d get a clue and realize that she needs to go back to rehab. She’s a grown ass woman, and I can’t force her. If I could, she’d already be there, especially if I knew what I do now. Hell, she would have been checked into rehab months ago. Before all the shit with Finn happened. Before cops picked her up.
Violet and I take our seats at the same moment a hand slides onto the table in front of me. I turn to see Aunt Bess, her face stricken with that same unwell look Violet commented on. My name falls from her mouth in a haggard breath. “Colson.”
And I know, I justknow, that something is wrong.
When I can’t seem to speak on it, Violet leans into my space, looking up at my aunt. “Bess, is everything okay?”
She shakes her head, swallowing down emotion I can’t place because I don’t know what the fuck is happening. The stones in my stomach become a hundred pounds each.
“No,” Aunt Bess shares, sounding out of breath. “No. Everything isnotalright.”
Violet and I share a look. Fear clutches my gut like a goddamn kid who won’t give up the last piece of candy that fell from the piñata.
It’s her next sentence that has me nosediving into the Mariana Trench.
“It’s your mom. It’s Janie.” She shakes her head, trying to rid herself of the raw emotion present on her face. All around us, conversations die down as people prepare for the silent auction, but I’m only focused on one thing.
“What about her?” I grip Aunt Bess’s arm. “What’s wrong with mom?”
The worst thoughts imaginable come to mind, and I visualize shit I’ve seen in my head so many times when I was a kid. Scenarios that no one should ever have to picture because they’re worried their mom might not come back from the high she’s riding.
Aunt Bess can’t seem to get the words out. She’s choking on them, and it’s so visibly disheartening that I wish I could reach out and take whatever pain she’s experiencing.
But that proves impossible when I don’t know what has her so disheveled.
“Bess?” Violet questions the woman beside me who I’ve only known as being indestructible, but at this moment is breaking, shattering like a vase crashing to the floor from the bump of an elbow.
The odd encounter draws Sebastian’s attention, but I’m too focused on his mom to care what the hell he’s thinking. Or saying.
Uncle Thad is the one who eventually speaks for my aunt as she sheds silent tears. It isn’t lost on me how silence is the theme of the moment.
Silent auction.
Silent tears.
Silent, silent, silent.
“Your mom…” Uncle Thad clears his throat, solidifying my earlier thought that whatever happened must be bad. He doesn’t get choked up about much, and as far as I’ve always known, he’s never cared much for my mom because of the drama she put his wife through.
The words are like sandpaper against my throat when I ask again, “What happened?”
Irritability consumes me over the stress whirling around. I’m ready to bang my fist on the table and demand answers, but that won’t help.
Each second drags on
and on
