“Oh, sweetheart.”
That’s all it takes.
Fresh tears spill instantly.
I press my hand over my eyes and fold deeper into Drew’s chest like maybe I can hide inside his warmth and not have to explain any of this out loud.
My mother doesn’t make me.
“He told you,” she says quietly.
Not a question.
I swallow hard.
“Yes.”
Drew’s hand starts moving through my hair again.
Slow.
Steady.
Like he understands instinctively that being on this call doesn’t mean I’m no longer falling apart.
My mother exhales softly.
“Are you alone?”
I almost laugh.
The sound comes out wrecked.
“No.”
There’s a beat.
Then:
“Who’s with you?”
I pull the phone away just enough to look at the ceiling.
“Drew.”
Another tiny silence.
I can practically hear her recalculating from twelve hundred miles away.
“The football boy?”
Even now, even sobbing in another man’s lap while wearing his shirt, I feel a faint stab of annoyance.
“There is more than one football boy.”
“Not if one of them sent you a florist and enough chocolate to trigger a sugar embargo.”
That actually startles a laugh out of me through the tears.
