I glance over and notice a framed picture of their entire family, back when his little brother was still alive.
Once we’re settled, I gather the courage pooling in my chest. “I...actually came because I wanted to ask about Jude.”
Both of them look up at once. Rachel’s expression softens in a way that makes something inside me crumble.
Alaric nods slowly, folding his hands. “We figured that might be why you’re here. We, uh...we saw the article. About the overdose.”
Rachel frowns, looking down at the floor to keep from crying.
I take a breath, steady, trembling anyway. “I don’t know where he’s staying,” I admit. “I don’t know how to reach him. But I—” My voice falters. “I’m worried. And I want to help. If I can.”
The silence that follows is not cold or hesitant. It’s just...heavy. I know that people who struggle with substance abuse can put their families through hell. And his parents don’t deserve that. I can’t help but feel both angry at him and scared for him.
Rachel’s mouth pulls tight, and she shakes her head. “We haven’t spoken to him in years. Not really. A text here and there, if he bothers to answer.” She smooths her hand over her jeans, a restless motion. “But...as his mother, I forced him to at least let me track his location. So I’d know he was alive. Where he was. Just for his safety.”
“You have his location?” I smile at her. “That’s...actually really smart.”
Rachel exhales shakily, as if my approval loosens something in her chest. She pulls out her phone and unlocks it. But when the map loads, I see her throat work. Her lashes flutter like she’s bracing.
“He’s...he’s here,” she whispers. “He’s only about fifteen minutes away.”
The air feels like it’s been sucked out of the room. My heart sinks.
Rachel bites the inside of her cheek, blinking quickly, forcing the tears back. Her estranged son is practically down the street, and he still hasn’t reached out.
Alaric’s gaze drops to the floor, arms folding tight across his chest, his jaw ticking. The pain in this room is thick enough to choke on.
I swallow. “What about Vanessa? How is she doing?”
Rachel takes the lifeline I’m offering with visible gratitude. “She’s living over in Portland now. She’s a vet.”
A genuine smile warms my face. “That’s amazing. I’m glad she’s doing well.”
Alaric taps his fingers against his arm. “What are you planning to do, Emma?”
I let out a long, uneven breath. “I want to talk to him.” My voice feels too small. “Maybe invite him to my studio. I don’t know. But he needs help. Badly.”
Their eyes lift to me, full of worry and hope and fear. The memory punches through my ribs—the way I saw Jude last weekend in Portland, pupils blown, barely present, high out of his mind, looking at me like I was both a hallucination and a ghost.
“I saw him last weekend in Portland,” I whisper.
Rachel’s eyes gloss over instantly. Alaric reaches to rub her arm, his touch gentle but steady.
“He looked, um…” My throat wobbles, and my lips keep trying to pull into a frown. “He doesn’t look good.”
A tear falls down Rachel’s cheek, and she bites her lip to refrain from crying any harder. I understand, because I’m strugglingright now, too.
“I haven’t even told my parents he’s back in town,” I admit. “I...I don’t know how to say it. Or what even to say.”
Rachel gives me a sad smile. “Tell your mom that I still have to give her the cake container thing back.”
I giggle. “Sure, I will.” Our parents all became best friends, and still actually hang out to this day. I haven’t been to my childhood home in months with how busy I’ve been at work. I text them almost every morning to say good morning, at least.
Rachel looks at her hands. “We all really thought we’d be attending your and Jude’s wedding one day.”
The words hit like a knife sliding in my gut slowly. My throat burns, tightening until I’m not sure air can get through. I press my lips together, working to swallow around the pain swelling up and up.
I thought that once, too.
