My mother’s mouth trembled around something. Anger. Guilt. Denial.
Maybe all three.
I didn’t wait to see which one won.
I grabbed my phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.”
“Baby, he left.”
“I know.”
“You don’t chase men.”
I stopped at the door and looked back.
There she was.
The lesson.
The whole kingdom of my childhood in four words.
You don’t chase men.
I smiled through tears.
“No, Mother. You don’t chase investments.” I slipped the bracelet onto my wrist. “You fight for love.”
Then I walked out before she could answer.
I sat lost in my thoughts, re-living every moment we shared. From that first beach athlete mixer encounter— to when he found me in the rain—to the kiss in the training room and all the little moments in between. For the first time my heart broke. It sucked—the all consuming pain of it. But the worst part was knowing I had done this to the both of us with my stubborn stupid pride.
It took two days for me watching The Great Baking Show in between cry fest to realize what I had to do. I called Jace.
“Hey— I need an address.”
“You calling because you feel guilty, or because you finally got your head out of your ass?”
I closed my eyes.
I deserved that.
“Both.”
“Mm.”
“But mostly because I love him.”
Silence.
Then Jace said, much softer, “Say that again.”
“I love him.”
“Damn.” A muffled voice in the background said something. Jace covered the phone badly and hissed, “Shut up, Mom. It’s the girl.” Then he came back. “Sorry. Family’s nosy.”
