My stomach tightened. “Why?”
“I talked to Silas.”
The name hit me like a patch of black ice. My foot jerked off the gas, and the car fishtailed slightly before I corrected.
Easy. Breathe.
“What?”
“Don’t get mad.”
Too late. “Why did you talk to Silas?”
“He’s worried about you, honey.”
I let out a laugh that tasted bitter. So worried about me that he’d called my alcoholic mother to manipulate her into doing his dirty work. Get her riled up, get her to call me, get me to call him back.
Because I’d changed my number and blocked his.
Because somehow—probably thanks to his security buddies that knew how to run background checks—he’d found where I worked. And chances were, Silas also now had my home address too.
The windshield wipers slapped a frantic rhythm. Snow was falling faster now, thick flakes that dissolved into streaks themoment they touched glass. I leaned forward, squinting at the road. The visibility was terrible, the kind of conditions that made you white-knuckle the wheel and pray.
Kind of like this conversation.
“Mom”—I kept my voice steady, even as my thumb found the inside of my palm, nail pressing into skin—“with all due respect, I’m not talking about Silas. I was going to call and tell you, but I haven’t gotten around to it. Our relationship is over.”
“But he said?—”
“I need you to hear me.” I cut her off, something I rarely did. “Him calling you, trying to get you worked up? That’s not concern. That’s manipulation. If you love me, if you trust me at all, you need to believe me. And if he calls again, do not answer. Okay?”
Silence. Then: “He said you’ve been acting erratic.”
For fuck’s sake.
Did she not hear a single word I just said? Irritation ground against my bones, hot and sharp.
“Of course that’s what he’s going to say, Mom.” I couldn’t keep the edge out of my voice anymore. “The relationship is over. He can’t possibly look in the mirror and admit he did something wrong. So, he’s spinning a story where I’m the crazy one.” I sucked in a breath through my teeth. “Can we please change the subject? He’s not a good guy.”
“He’s always been so kind to us.”
And there it was. The heartbeat of how my mother evaluated every relationship, every friendship. Through the years, people in my life had fallen into two buckets: those who thought my parents were disasters I should flee and those who had empathy.
Mom could always sniff out which category someone fell into. It was in the undertone of every question she asked about my friends, my boyfriends, my life. And deep down, I knew it was rooted in paranoia.
I liked to believe my mother knew she was failing me. I also liked to believe she was terrified I’d cut ties completely.
As awful as that was to admit, it meant she cared about having me in her life. It was one of the only pieces of evidence I had that she loved me.
But with that came deep insecurity about her failures. She looked to the people in my life as judge, jury, and executioner. If enough of them convinced me she was bad news, that was bad news for her.
When Silas entered the picture, he swooped in like a savior. Encouraged me to work things out with my parents. Told me family was everything. Played the role of supportive boyfriend so well, I never saw the trap closing around me.
At first at least.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that in hindsight, that was pure manipulation. A calculated move to look like the good guy. Or that months later, he’d called my parents every name in the book and demanded I never speak to them again.
Now, in his desperate bid to get me back, he was dusting off the savior costume.
