I know things are murky in the corrections system, but there’s no way in hell she should’ve gotten ahold of what she did. The guards should’ve kept a closer eye on her, knowing that she was a flight risk when it came to drugs.
Why didn’t they give more of a damn?
The only explanation I come up with is that someone snuck shit in, and that’s how she got it. That thought doesn’t sit well. Unless she was getting her hands on the stuff the minute she got there, she’d have gone through withdrawal symptoms by now. She would have been on the other side of it already.
And yet, she wasn’t.
I press back into my foot and stretch my leg out. I tap my shoe off the floor before slamming my fist down on the acrylic countertop surrounding the sink.
Pain icicles its way through my hand. I barely feel it. “Fuck!”
I twist around and look down at my hands. They’re shaking and lack the calmness I’ve spent so many years perfecting. Mom pulled up the worst feelings imaginable in me over the years. I learned how to move through them, but now, as I’m minutes away from claiming her body, my control is spiraling, my resolve weakening.
My chest is heavy.
My head runs rampant with questions.
My lungs beg to expand so I can let it all out, but the restlessness in my legs begs me to run like I did when I was a teenager who didn’t know what the hell to do.
I can’t bring myself to do it. To leave. Even though Aunt Bess, Uncle Thad, Sebastian, and—Jesus Christ—Violet are here, I’m really the only one Mom had in her last days before ending up in jail. I have no choice but to lift my head, square my shoulders, and walk out there to face one of my biggest fears since I was a child.
No matter how much I don’t want to do it, I can’t let anyone else verify she’s Janie Moore.
The only person who should do it is me, and as I stare back at myself in the bathroom mirror, I can’t shake how that fact grips my stomach in its fist, squeezing until all of its contents come barreling up the back of my throat.
When I make it out of the bathroom, I find the others waiting for me outside of the family room. They’re grouped in the hall, looking as hopeless and devastated as I am inside. Even Violet, who stands arm-to-arm with Sebastian looks as though she’s been through a great loss.
If he weren’t my cousin and we were in any other scenario, I’d walk down this hall and pull her to my side. Remind the fucking world that she’s mine. That I don’t intend on giving her up so goddamn easily.
But this is Sebastian she’s tapping strength from, the boy who scoffed at my delinquent ideas of stealing whiskey out of his parents’ stash, and the same person who told me not to fuck it up when I decided to jump all in with the girl beside him.
There’s no one better in the world to be by her side right now.
He looks down at Violet like a big protective brother would. Like he’d never say no to offering his shoulder. And I’m fucking grateful for it, because ever since Aunt Bess stumbled to our table with bad news written in her features, I haven’t known what to say to the girl I’m absolutely crazy about.
The reluctance that nearly had me pushing her away before clamps down on me, and I don’t know how to get rid of it. Not when there are more important things to do. I decide to ignore it until I have no choice but to face it.
Violet deserves affection, communication, and explanations. Not this bullshit life of mine. Not the secrets I’ve kept from her about Mom’s addiction. Shame fills me just thinking about her finding out how much I’ve lied to my family.
Lied about Finn.
Lied about Mom relapsing.
Lied about the money and drugs.
Aunt Bess is the first to break away from the rest of them. In the time I was gone, she’s managed to pull herself together. Tears don’t stain her cheeks, and her lips are set back in the firm line they were in earlier this evening at the fundraiser. She walks up to me and lifts her hands to the lapels of my jacket.
“Oh, Colson. We’ll get through this,” she promises. Just like that, the strength that resides in the woman who I grew up secretly wishing at times was my mom is back. She tugs on my suit jacket, and it’s so damn hard looking down into her soft eyes that I almost don’t. They look too much like Mom’s.
I flick my gaze over her head, ignoring the glimmer of Violet’s dress in the corner of my eye. God, she looks so fucking good. Pretty in a way I can’t possibly describe, but now her dress is tainted with the news of my mother’s passing. I fix my sight on a vending machine nearby. Far enough away from my girl that her dress doesn’t push into my line of sight and cause a revolving door of guilt to trip me up.
I clear my throat and tell my aunt, “Mom’s been alone long enough.”
“I know.” She looks down and shakes her head. “I don’t want to do this anymore than you, but we’ll get through this together. We’ll figure out funeral details after.”
It’s so fucking hard to look at her, especially when all I see are the features she shares with the woman we’re here for. “She wouldn’t want that.”
“She needs to be laid to rest properly, but we’ll worry about that later. The triage nurse called the doctor again. We’re just waiting for someone to come out and show us the way.”
