“Was it a good visit?”
How long are we going to make small talk for? I know it’s not why she called. “It was great,” I say. “I really liked having her here. It’s been hard that we live so far apart.”
“Your father and I had to do long distance a few times,” my mom says after a slight pause. “I don’t know if you remember—you were very young. He struggled, missing you so much. Not that he would talk about it, of course. But I could tell.”
She was younger than I am now. Twenty-five when I was born, a little less than a year into their marriage. I take a deep breath, shove my other hand into my coat pocket, and shut my eyes.
“Yeah, I miss her,” I admit, half to prove I’m not my father. Half because, fuck it, it’s true. “It’s only been a day, and I already miss her.”
“You always had the biggest heart, Javi,” my mom says, her voice gentle. “I know sometimes that wasn’t a good thing.”
I don’t have a response for that.
“I called to apologize,” my mom goes on, and something in me relaxes, something that’s been wound tight for a week now. “Well—I called to apologize for saying that Madeline would hurt you on purpose. I know she wouldn’t.”
“No,” I agree.
She takes a deep breath. “And I’m sorry for thinking you couldn’t handle something going wrong between you. Of course you could. That was—it was shortsighted of me to assume the worst like that.” She clears her throat again, and I think I can hear her swallow. “My memories of your worst days are so clear, and the good ones are so hazy. I wish it was the other way around. Maybe I’d be more inclined to think of them first.”
I stop pacing and sit on a cement curb. There’s a chunk missing from one end. “Thanks. I wish that, too.” I take a deep breath because it’s my turn. “I’m sorry for not being honest. It probably would have solved some problems.”
“Maybe,” my mom says, which is accurate. I’m not completely sorry for not telling her, but I’m sorry shit blew up so hard. “It’s too late now, though. And I admit I understand keeping the secret,” she says, grudgingly.
“I don’t think you can blame me for that,” I say, and she just sighs.
“Don’t push your luck,” she says, and I smile at the asphalt beneath my shoes. “I’m sorry I reacted the way I did, Javi. I was scared for you, and I should have been happy. Madeline is…she’s wonderful. I’ve thought that since I met her.”
I’m thirty years old and my mom’s approval still feels like I’m levitating off the ground.
“Me, too,” I say. “And—Mom,” I start, then stop because I’m not sure I know how to say this next thing, but it’s been scratching at me for too long now, an uncomfortable spot between my shoulder blades.
“Javi?” she asks when I’m quiet for too long.
“Thanks for still worrying,” I say in a rush, just so I can get it out. “I know I’m kind of a fuckup, and I know I’m the reason for most of your gray hair, but I also know you could have written me off a while ago or given up on me, and maybe that would have been easier for you, but you didn’t. So, thanks. And, ah, sorry for making you worry so much. I’m trying to do that less.”
There’s areallylong silence, but I can hear her breathing. She clears her throat twice, and when she finally speaks, I can tell she’s trying not to cry. Shit. I feel like I’m twelve years old and just brought home the first of many bad report cards. My father was furious, but my mother was disappointed, and that was so much worse.
“I would never give up on you,” she finally says. “I’ll be worrying about you until I draw my final breath.”
“That’s not quite what I was going for.”
“Well, it’s the truth.”
There’s an ache at the back of my throat, and I swallow it down. “So, I’m still invited to the wedding, yeah?”
My mom scoffs at me, and even over the phone, I can practically see her roll her eyes. “It’s already paid for. You think we’re going to let it go to waste?”
“I wouldneverthink that.”
“Besides, I would never disinvite you. I’d spend the whole ceremony worrying about where you were.”
“Wow.”
“Stay where I can see you, Javier Tomás,” she chides, then laughs, and as much as I hate getting middle-named, I feel lighter.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
MADELINE
