“You talked to Mom about this?” I ask, smiling at the thought.
He nods. “Well, kinda. She talked to me, and all the stuff just kind of spilled out.”
“She’s a great person to talk to.”
Humming, he snuggles deeper into me. “She is. But yeah… I want to call them, but I’m just afraid. I’ve typed in the number like seven times, and I keep chickening out. I wanted to wait until you got home. Will you sit with me while I call?”
“Anything you need, sweetheart.”
“Can I stay here?”
I look around in confusion. “Sweetheart… you live here. Unless there’s something you wanna tell me.”
He groans. “I meanthere.In your lap.”
Duh. I press a kiss to his head. “Course. Call them.”
Taking a deep breath, he nods, then picks up his phone and types in a number. His shaking thumb hovers over the call button, and finally, he presses it. It rings once, and he inhales sharply then hangs up, the phone trembling in his grasp.
“Theo… It’s okay,” I whisper. “You can do this.” I carefully work the phone free from his hand and pull up the number myself. “You ready?”
He nods, though he doesn’t actually look convinced.
I dial the number. He jolts when it rings, and I tighten my arm around him when he tries to reach for the phone. “Theo, it’s okay, just breathe.”
He does, his chest rising and falling in time with each ring. My heart sinks when it starts to seem like no one is going to answer, but finally,finallya woman’s voice comes over the line.
“Hello?”
I can tell right away that it’s Theo’s mom. Not because of her, but because of him. Because of the way his breath catches and the way his body tenses against mine.
I nod toward him, raising my eyebrows, trying to encourage him.
“Hello?” she says again. “Is anyone there?”
“Hi, ma’am,” I say, since it’s clear Theo isn’t quite ready to talk yet. “My name is Hunter Lock, and I’m calling about Theo—”
She interrupts me with a broken sob. “He’s dead, isn’t he? Oh God. I’ve been terrified of this call for a decade.”
My eyes widen, and Theo whimpers. “No!” I practically shout. “No, he’s not dead. He’s—”
“I’m here, Mom,” he whispers, his voice croaky and strained. “I’m not dead.”
There’s silence and then a long, deep exhale. I feel the relief in that exhale. The years of wondering and hoping and wishing and letdowns. I think Theo does too, because tears well up in his eyes.
“Theo,” she whispers. “Is it really you?”
“It’s me, Momma.”
My heart clenches at the soft tone of his voice. It feels like I’m holding eighteen-year-old Theo in my arms, his voice broken and his heart open and vulnerable. I press a kiss to his temple, letting my lips linger there as I breathe him in.
“How…” Her voice trails off.
“I’m sorry,” Theo chokes out. I rub his back, keeping my lips against his skin, hoping it’s soothing to him. “I should have called sooner. Way sooner, but I was scared and ashamed, and I—”
She shushes him softly through the phone, like he’s a small child, and my heart tumbles. I know that our brains can be mean to us. They can make us believe things that aren’t true, but thatTheo thought for even a second that his mom wouldn’t want to talk to him again breaks my heart.
It’s easy to tell from her relief and the tone of her voice that she’s been waiting for this moment. Praying and wishing for it.
