But when Davis tried to lighten the mood by asking how things went with “that guy you assaulted,” my throat closed up so fast I nearly gagged on my food.
“It didn’t work out,” was all I managed. His eyes sharpened, but he let it go. I think he knew if he pressed, I’d shatter.
After that I had a shower, scrubbing the grime of the last two days off me and standing under the hot water until it turned cold. I almost had a mini breakdown when I remembered that I emptied my underwear drawer the last time I was here, because for whatever insane reason, that feels like a fond memory of a time I won’t get back. But finally I fell into bed in a ratty old pair of shorts and passed out hard.
There’s shuffling in the kitchen, and I figure I should probably get up and let Davis know I’m not dying, even if it kind of feels like it. When I drag myself down the hall, scrubbing a hand over my face, I find my mom instead. She’s standing at the counter in her diner T-shirt and a pair of old sweatpants, her hair piled up on her head. The fluorescent kitchen light makes her look paler than usual, but her eyes are sharp when they find mine.
“Hey, baby,” she says when she sees me. “Merry Christmas.”
That’s right. It’s Christmas Eve. Guilt hits again, realizing I was supposed to be here Sunday night. “I’m sorry I’m late, and that I didn’t call. My phone has been off.” I start rambling, not ready to admit how royally I’ve fucked things up. I’ve always prided myself on being the one thing she doesn’t need to worry about. “I wanted to be here by Monday at the latest, because I want to get some stuff done outside. I’m going to fix that step today, I think, and—” It suddenly occurs to me that she would have left for work before the sun came up, and it's fully light out, which means she’s already been to work and back. “What time is it?” I ask, disoriented.
“It’s after noon,” she says with a playful smile. “Do you want a sandwich? I brought some leftover bacon back from the diner and I’ve got a beautiful tomato.”
“That sounds amazing.” I pull down some glasses and see that she’s only making two sandwiches.
“Isn’t Davis joining us?” I ask. Tomato and bacon sandwiches are his favorite.
“Oh, he left just before you got up. Took my car when I got back from work. I figured he was heading up to the church early.”
Shit, that’s right. Davis told me last night that he’s getting his six-month chip at his AA meeting today. He asked if I’d like to go with him, and I said I would.
“I was supposed to go with him,” I groan with a mouth full of sandwich. “I didn’t mean to sleep so late.”
“Well, the meetings don’t usually start until one,” she says, checking the time on her phone. “And it’s just down the street. You’ve still got time if you want to make it.”
I nod and take a large bite of my sandwich to hurry through it, but then I remember I don’t have my car here. “That bike still in the shed?”
She nods. “That’s what Davis uses to get around when I’m at work. Do you want to talk about where your car is? How did you get here?”
I stare at my half-eaten sandwich, the shame spiral creeping up on me all over again.
“I got in trouble at school,” I say. “Big trouble.”
“Oh, baby.” She reaches across and squeezes my forearm. “What happened?”
I swallow. “I punched someone.”
Her brows lift. “That’s not like you.”
I huff out something like a laugh. “Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Who was it?” she asks.
“Pierce Jamison.” I say.
Her expression hardens in a way I rarely see. “Jamison?”
I nod, and she sucks in a breath through her nose. For a second I brace myself for a lecture, but when she speaks, her voice is thick.
“Are you alright?”
I want to say yes, that I’ll be fine. I always manage to figure things out, and this is just another small obstacle. And hey, I’ve been wanting to spend more time with you and Davis since he got out of rehab. Now I can help more around the house, and…
I guess my expression and lack of answer is enough.
“Oh, honey.” She pushes back from the table, comes around to my side, and pulls my head gently against her soft stomach like she used to when I was little and had a nightmare. Her hand strokes the back of my neck. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry everything has been so hard.”
Tears prick again. I squeeze my eyes shut.
