Mom is standing beside her.
My mother, in my apartment, in a pressed blouse and lipstick like she came here expecting to be offered coffee. Her cheeks are bright red, the color creeping up her neck in blotchy waves. Her mouth is tight, pinched like she’s swallowed something acidic and it’s burning all the way down.
Her eyes—sharp and unblinking—are fixed on Rafe.
Then on me.
Then back to Rafe again.
He goes utterly still at my side, like he’s just been turned into stone. His hand slides closer to mine, instinctive. Protective. Not letting go.
And I?—
I can’t think.
I can’t breathe.
I can only stare at my mother’s face and feel the world cracking open in real time. Because there is no version of this where she doesn’t understand what she just saw. There’s no version of this where I can explain it away. And there’s definitely no version of this where the lie survives.
Fuck it all to hell.
13
I wantto crawl into a hole. I want the floor to open up beneath my feet and swallow me whole so I don’t have to see my mother’s face, don’t have to feel the way the air has changed in the room, don’t have to register the sound of my own heartbeat pounding so hard it makes my ears ring.
Rafe’s hand is still near mine. He’s not touching me, but his hand is hovering, like he’s waiting for permission he shouldn’t need.
Mom looks between us again, slower this time, her gaze sharp and assessing, like she’s cataloging evidence at a crime scene. Her mouth tightens. “Oh,” she says at last.
That single word is worse than shouting.
“What,” Lindy says cautiously, stepping forward a fraction. “Mom?—”
My mother doesn’t look at her. She looks at Rafe. And then she laughs. It’s short, sharp, and bitter. It sounds like it scraped its way out of her throat. “You have got to be kidding me,” she says.
Rafe straightens instinctively, like he’s bracing for impact. He opens his mouth, probably to say something polite, something measured, something respectful?—
“Don’t,” she snaps.
The word cracks like a whip.
“Don’t you dare speak,” she continues, eyes blazing now. “I know exactly what you are.”
I feel nauseous.
My stomach twists so hard I have to brace my hand against the back of the couch to stay upright. “Mom,” I say, voice steady by sheer force of will. “Stop.”
She finally looks at me. Really looks. And the disappointment in her eyes is like a physical blow. “This,” she says, gesturing between us with a flick of her hand, “is what you’ve been hiding? Why you’ve not been coming home?”
Rafe’s jaw tightens. His shoulders remain squared, but I can feel the tension radiating off him like heat.
I step forward without thinking, placing myself slightly in front of him. “That’s enough,” I say.
Her eyes widen just a fraction. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t get to talk to him like that,” I say, calm and deliberate. “Not in our home.”
Her laugh comes again, harsher this time. “Ourhome?”
