I ignore it.
It keeps going.
Then stops.
Then starts again.
Drew’s hand slows in my hair.
“You should probably check that.”
I shake my head against his throat.
“No.”
He doesn’t push.
Just reaches one long arm out, blindly feels around the couch cushion, and finds the phone where it’s half trapped between the blanket and my discarded hoodie.
He glances at the screen.
Then down at me.
“It’s your mom.”
That makes me want to cry all over again.
Because of course it is.
Because mothers always know somehow.
Or maybe heartbreak just puts out a signal only they can hear.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
His hand comes up and cups the back of my head, big palm warm there.
“Yeah, you can.”
I let out one broken laugh.
“I am literally in pieces right now.”
He looks down at me with rain still drying at the edges of his hair, face softer than I’ve ever seen it.
“Then let her hear the pieces.”
That should not be the thing that makes me answer.
It is.
I swipe the screen with fingers that still won’t stop shaking.
“Hi, Mama.”
Silence.
Then my mother’s voice, smooth Texas honey with steel under it:
