One by one, every person at the table turns to me. Waiting and waiting for me say something.
Anything.
I look my mom dead in the eye and say, "I need to use the restroom."
Then I walk away, not daring to look back.
"Olive, are you in here?" Mom’s voice echoes beneath the bathroom stall not long after I close the door. I knew she’d follow me. I hoped she would.
I slowly unlock the cubical door and step out, staring at my feet instead of the eyes that mirror my own. "You love him, don’t you?"
I collapse into her chest, sobs racking through me as Ifinallylet it all out.
Thinking I was dying.
Being away from home.
The diagnosis—something that could steal my quality of life.
The medication.
Avery.
The marriage.
She wraps her arms around my neck, and I loop mine around her waist, crying into her chest, no doubt smearing mascara and foundation all over her soft pink blouse.
There’s so much I need to unpack with my mom, so much I want to say. But I can’t bring myself to say any of it out loud.
I write songs about other people, for God’s sake. I don’t talk aboutmyfeelings. Why start now?
"I’m scared, Mom," I whisper, my lip uncontrollably trembling.
"Is he as bad as they say?" she asks, her voice low and careful. But the question catches me off guard.
I pull back from her chest, and her arms drop to her sides. I wrap mine around myself to make up for the sudden loss of her touch.
"Not even close." I wipe the tears off my cheeks, grabbing paper towels to dry my eyes. "He’s—I—"
"Then we love him, too. I don’t need the details. I don’t need to know how you feel. If you say he’s good, and he treats you right? That’s all your father and I could ever ask for when it comes to you girls. As long as you three are happy, love freely, and are loved in return, we’ve done our jobs as your parents."
She pulls me back into her chest, places a kiss on my head, and runs her hands down my back. "You tell that man how you feel whenyou’reready. If he’s as good as you say he is, he will wait as long as it takes. I promise you that."
She kisses my cheek, and slowly, my tears start to dry.
I will tell him tomorrow.
I will admit that I love Avery Jones tomorrow.
Chapter forty-four
New York Raptors
STATEMENT
The New York Raptors have recently been made aware of allegations made against one of our own, Avery Jones.
Images of Olive Herring, Jones’ new wife, have emerged where she appears to have bruises scattered in various parts of her body.
