Briggs
I should tell her to go, but she’s the only thing keeping me from getting in my car and driving off a fucking cliff. I wouldn’t actually do that, but I’d do something destructive. Punch in a wall. Bash a window. Break every damn piece of china my mom left behind. It’s the only way I could deal with this pain if I were alone. And maybe that’s what I should do. Maybe I should tell Ella to go and then destroy the shit out of this fucking house that I hate.
But I don’t want her to leave. There’s something about having her here that makes what happened tonight seem not as devastating. Maybe it’s because Ella doesn’t even have a mom, so the fact that I still do makes me feel like I shouldn’t complain, even though my mom doesn’t give a shit about me.
She’s not coming to my graduation. I got the text just as Ella and I were leaving my room to come downstairs. Ella could tell something was wrong and asked me about it, but I couldn’t tell her. I was too embarrassed that my own mother wouldn’t be coming to my graduation.
I’m her only son. I’m graduating at the top of my class. But apparently that’s not important enough for her to show up. She has better things to do. Who the fuck knows what those things are, but they take priority over her son.
“Briggs?” Ella points to the microwave, which is beeping. “Want me to get it?”
“No, I got it.” I take out the plates and bring them to the other side of the island where we have barstools lined up. I take a seat, my mind still on my mom, angry she didn’t even have the decency to call and tell me the news.
“What’s going on?” Ella asks, sitting beside me.
“Nothing.” I go to pick up my fork, but notice I don’t have one. I get up and go to the drawer where we keep the silverware. I grab a couple of forks and return to my seat, handing a fork to Ella.
She sets it down and turns to me. “Was it that text?”
I look at her. “What are you talking about?”
“Upstairs. You got a text and seemed upset. Was it from Aubrey?”
“No.” I pause, wanting to tell her because I really need to talk to someone about this, and I can’t talk to Parker and Finn. They’re not the type of friends you talk to about serious shit. They’d say to tell my mom to fuck off and forget about her. They wouldn’t understand that this is about more than her not showing up. It’s about her taking off, not caring about her son, not even showing interest in me.
I don’t know why I’m letting this get to me. I shouldn’t even be surprised. She’s been gone for over a year. She has her own life, and I have mine. But still, it hurts so damn bad, I guess because part of me actually thought she cared about me. I know my dad doesn’t, and never has, and I’ve learned to accept that, but only because I had my mom. Now I don’t, and maybe I never did. Maybe she’s like my dad and never wanted me, but felt the social pressure to have a child, someone to carry on the family name and run the business someday.
“Who was it?” Ella asks. “Who texted you?”
“My mom,” I mutter, staring down at my plate. I don’t know why I heated up food. I’m not hungry.
“What’d she say?” Ella cautiously asks.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I shove my plate aside and blow out a breath. “Everything’s just really fucked up right now and it’s pissing me off. This is supposed to be the best time of my life — my last semester of high school. I should be out partying every night, hanging out with my friends, not worrying about thecops showing up at my door or that my own damn mom—” I stop before I say it, getting up to take my plate to the sink. I scrape the food into the disposal and run the water, watching it pour from the faucet.
“That’s what this is about?” Ella asks, appearing beside me. “Your mom?”
I keep my eyes on the running water, trying to imagine it washing away these feelings I’m having, but it’s not that easy. They can’t be washed away, or forgotten, or ignored.
“What happened?” Ella shuts the water off. “With your mom. Is she okay?”
I nod. “She’s fine.”
“Then what is it?”
“Just go. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have asked you to stay.”
“You didn’t.” She smiles. “You told me to go but I really wanted that Chinese food.”
“You didn’t even eat it.”
“Not yet.” She looks down at the plate in the sink, then back up at me. “Briggs, I know something happened and I know you don’t want to tell me but—”
“She’s not coming,” I blurt out.
“Who’s not coming?”
“My mom. She can’t make it to graduation.” I grip the edge of the sink like I’m about to rip it off. A minute ago, I was sad, but now I’m angry. I keep alternating between the two, but I prefer the anger. I can deal with anger. I can’t deal with sadness.
