I’ve never heard anger in her voice, yet there’s no mistaking it now. Joshua’s shoulders tense as we both register the shift, but he doesn’t shy away.
“Where’s my son? What’d you do?” When she shoots her attention to me, I almost start at the penetrating glare. “Y-you brought one ofthemhere?”
I don’t realize I’m walking backward until my shoulders touch the wall.
“Mom, no.” His voice is gruff, thick.Hurt.“It’s me, your son. You know that. You know me.”
But she’s not looking at him. She’s watchingme. Like I’ve done something wrong. Like I’m not supposed to be here.
I want to help, to say something, but my chest is too tight, crushed beneath the weight of her stare.
The truth is, she’s right. I’m not supposed to be here. This was their moment, between mother and son, and it was perfect.
Until I ruined it.
Turning on my heel, I duck through the doorway and scramble into the hall, my steps quickening. But her flustered, angry words trail me as she gets louder, each one sticking to my back like sludge, and I keep replaying the betrayal on her face. The muscles coiling in Joshua’s back. The rough pain in his voice.
I squeeze the birthstones hanging from my neck, my throat tight while I near the entrance.
“Blue? What’s the matter, sugar?”
“Hi, Jenny.” I slow slightly as I pass her desk, and my hand shakes when I wave. “Can you, um, can you maybe have someone check on Miss Riley and her son? I think ...” I swallow, swiping at my wet cheeks. “I think I messed up, and I’m just ... I’m worried. I’m sorry for the trouble.”
She says something in response, but I’m already pushing the doors open, an icy chill biting my skin from the breeze as I dash toward my bike. My limbs are numb when I hop on and grab the handles, but I push with everything I have. Somehow, I make it home, park my bike in the garage, and walk to the living room in a daze.
I drop my tote bag on the couch and untuck my phone from my back pocket. There’s a voicemail from Benji, but I ignore it, taking a breath and finding my mom’s number instead.
“Pass on the love if you feel like it, hang up if you don’t. Either way, may you find your peace.”
“Hey, Mom. Happy birthday again. I miss you. Um, I guess just ... just call me when you can? Please.” I’m about to hang up when my lip trembles, and I find myself repeating, “I miss you.”
I’m staring at the phone, my thumb hovering over Benji’s number, when a door closes upstairs and heavy footfalls head toward the living room.
My dad appears at the bottom of the steps, pausing when he spots me. “Hey, you. Didn’t expect you to be back so soon.” Moving closer, he frowns when I don’t respond. “Something wrong?”
“Um.” I let out an uneven breath. “No. Yeah. I don’t know.” I shake my head, staring into my dad’s eyes. His face is so kind. So accepting.
Yet I don’t want to talk to him.
Not with the rush of emotions choking my throat. They’re too dark, too unwelcome, and too closely resembling the ones he makes me feel. I try to swallow them down like I always do, but they’re stubborn, pushing and pushing, and I’m running out of air.
I’m happy, I remind myself. I have a good life. I’m free and easygoing. I don’t get weighed down by sticky emotions like this, and I don’t cry.
“Bluebell ...” He reaches for my shoulder, but I jerk away.
Guilt pricks me at the surprise that crosses his expression. I don’t know why I just did that. I don’t know why I’m feeling any of this, or what I’m supposed to do about it. I’ve never felt so ... somuchat one time. So much confusion, so much hurt, and the longer I look at my dad, the more I don’t know why I’m hurting in the first place.
Is it Joshua? Keeping the most important parts of himself from me? Not feeling that he can come to me? Is it my dad? Missing so much of my life? Coming back out of nowhere? Keeping his past from me? Is it Mom? Always running away from me?
An exasperated breath leaves my lips, and I whirl around, tossing my phone on the window seat.
God, what am I even thinking?She isn’t running from me. She isn’t running at all.
See, this is what Mom meant when she said negativity multiplies like weeds. One negative emotion, negative thought, and they spiral into a huge mess so discombobulated I don’t even know what I’m looking at. And here I am focusing on it, watering it, just like she always says not to.
“I-I’m sorry,” I whisper, my back still to my dad. “I think I just need to get out. Fresh air, you know?”
I look over my shoulder, and he’s pressing his lips together the way he does when he’s contemplating. I can tell he wants to say something.
