“But you’re gonna be dragged back into it, Walker. Judging by the reaction to that song, the record is going to be huge. There will be promo. Tours. The whole circus.”
“And I’m not doing any of it. I’ll put out my music and the circus can figure itself out.” His hand strokes slow down my back. “It’s family first. Then the music. And everyone else can go fuck themselves.”
I laugh, then lean into him with a weary sigh. “I never did fix your dirty mouth.”
He murmurs into my hair, “That’s because you secretly love my dirty mouth.”
He kisses me then. And despite his flirtatious words, his kiss is soft. Tender.
“If it smooths things over for you at the school,” he says when he pull away, “I’m happy to go. Talk to the kids, perform, write a check to the music program. Whatever you need from me, Sadie. Just say the word.”
I need so much more from him than a quick visit to New York.
I just need him.
I never thought I’d trust another person enough to actually need them.
Not after my daddy left and everything fell apart the way it did. Not after learning young that the only reliable person in your life is yourself.
The scars you get when you’re a kid are the ones you keep for life. They might even become the thing you build your whole personality around without realizing it.
Except Walker keeps showing up for me. It’s as much in his little everyday gestures of caring as it is the big things he’s done for me. It’s Walker who’s made me feel like the hard stuff doesn't have to be carried alone, for the first time in my life.
I don't know how to handle that. All I know is that I want more of it.
I say goodbye to Momma the following afternoon.
She doesn't want to come to the airport. Too much fuss, she says, which is typical of her and also not the whole truth.
Momma’s never been good at goodbyes, ever since my daddy’s version of one soured her on the whole concept. She handles them by refusing to make a big deal out of them. Like if it’s not a real goodbye it won’t hurt as much.
So I drive her home from the hospital and get her settled. Dialysis machine reconnected, medications lined up on the windowsill, refrigerator stocked. I go over the schedule for the aide that Walker hired.
I don’t expect anything more than the silence she gives me.
When I pick up my keys she follows me to the door and stands in the frame, small and stubborn and not quite looking at me.
I’d kill for a long, warm hug right now. A little bit of fuss over me. I want her to hold me tight and demand that I keep her updated the second the plane lands and to send lots of pictures and text her every day.
I feel like a little girl wanting her mommy to tell her howmuch she loves her and will miss her and can’t wait to see her again.
But the little girl version of me never got any of that, and I know better than to wish for it now. So all I say is, “I’ll call you when I’m in New York.”
She blurts, “I saw that horrible woman on TV.”
The abrupt change in subject throws me for a second. “There are a lot of horrible women you watch on TV,” I reply.
“You know which one. Your boyfriend’s ex-wife.”
My fingers tighten on my keys. I brace myself for the cutting comment. The I-told-you-so, that playing wifey would come back to bite me in the ass after all, that I’ve ruined the good name I worked hard to build.
She says, “All the stuff that stuck-up bitch said about you, it’s ridiculous. Anyone can tell you’d make a piss-poor gold-digger. Between your temper and that sharp tongue, anyone looking for a trophy wife would have handed you your walking papers on day one.”
It takes me a minute to process it, but I’m pretty sure this is my mother’s version of comforting me.
“Thanks. I think,” I say. “Okay. Gotta go.” I push open the screen door.
“That man is in love with you,” she says.
