Chapter Thirty-one
Hale
My leg bounces anxiously under the table, the cheap laminate rattling softly with every jittery movement. I chew at the dry skin around my nail bed, worrying it between my teeth like it might give me answers if I bite hard enough. I can’t believe Eric talked me into this. I should’ve pushed this conversation off until after the finale. Although, if I’m being honest with myself,I’m not sure there will ever be a time when I’m actually ready for this.
Whatcouldshepossiblyhavetosayafterallthese years?
What has she been doing with Aksel’s parents? Why them? Why now? And why the hell hasn’t she reached out to me until it was convenient for a reality show to shove her back into my life?
Okay. Fine. I do have questions. A lot of them. They crowd my head, loud and relentless, tripping over each other until I can barely hear my own thoughts. But all of this could have waited. It didn’t need to happen right here, right now.
I bite down a little too hard.
A sharp sting blooms, and I pull my hand away to find a bead of blood welling up along the edge of my thumb. I stare at it, momentarily mesmerized as gravity pulls it down my skin. One drop. Then another. They land on the stark white tabletop, shockingly bold.
Eric reacts instantly. He swipes at the table with a napkin and presses a thick wad of paper into my hand. “Hold this on there,” he says briskly. Then, softer, with a sigh as he drags a hand over his face and through his beard, “I forgot how bitey you get when you’re stressed out.”
I shoot him a flat look.
He exhales and leans forward, elbows on the table, voice steady and annoyingly reasonable. “If you didn’t talk to her today, you wouldn’t be able to focus all week, Hale. You’d spiral. You know that as well as I do.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “This way, you ask your questions, decide if you want to forgive her, decide if you want to make up with Aksel, and then refocus on the competition in time for the finale on Thursday.”
I hate that he makes a good point.
I know he’s right, but I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to open old wounds. I don’t want to hear explanations thatmightmakethingsmessierinsteadofclearer.Idon’t want to talk to my mom. I don’t want to hear her side. And I definitely don’t want to forgive Aksel.
He lied to me. Full stop. I don’t care why.
“How do you know I’ll forgive him?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Eric snorts. “Oh, please, babes. He’s just as wrecked over this as you are. I’d bet my third leg he had a damn good reason for not telling you.”
“Your third leg?” I burst out laughing, the sound tearing itself out of my chest and startling even me. “I’ve seen your third leg. That’s a huge bet.”
He laughs with me, and for a brief, blessed moment, the tightness in my chest loosens. I gasp for air, laughing so hard it hurts, sounding like I’m dying in stages.
“I’ve missed the sound of your laugh.”
The voice cuts through the moment like a knife. My laughter dies instantly.
I’m on my feet before my brain catches up, the chair screeching and flipping backward with a loud crash that turns heads across the room. My heart slams against my ribs, my pulse roaring in my ears as I stare at the woman standing there.
“Mom.”
She smiles uncertainly, fingers twisting tight around the straps of her purse like it’s the only thing anchoring her in place. The long sweater she’s wearing is wildly inappropriate for Vegas heat, sleeves pulled down past her wrists despite the warmth. I know what’s under there without seeing it. The pale, jagged scars lining her arms were the history she neverbothered to hide when I was younger.
Her clothes hang loose on her frame, but not in the hollow, swallowed way they used to when I was in high school. Back then, she had one dress she wore until it practically fell apart, the fabric sliding off her shoulders like it didn’t want to be there either. Like she didn’t want to be there.
She looks… healthy now.
Not just sober-healthy. Living healthy.
There’s color in her cheeks. Her eyes are clear. And even with the nerves written all over her face, there’s something else there, too. Something dangerously close to happiness. The sight of it knocks the wind out of me. It almost makes me forgive her on the spot.
Almost.
Eric clears his throat, breaking the staring contest before it can stretch into something unbearable. He gestures toward the chairs. Mine has been righted at some point, and he holds it steady while I drop into it like my legs have forgotten how to work. My hands shake as I grab my coffee, gripping it too tightly. The lid pops off with a soft snap.
“Shit,” I mutter, panic flaring as coffee sloshes onto the table. I dump napkins onto the spreading puddle, blotting wildly, my movements frantic and clumsy.
