Page 95 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

The ride home is a blur. I don’t cry until I’m inside my apartment. The moment the door shuts behind me, the dam breaks. I slide down the wood, knees hitting the floor, and the sobs come hard—chest-heaving, ugly, uncontrollable. My whole body rocks with them. It feels like someone reached inside my ribcage and ripped my heart out.

He looked right through me. Like I was nothing. Like the last few months never existed.

I press my palms to my eyes, trying to stop the tears, but they keep coming. My chest is so tight I can barely breathe. The pain is crushing, like I’m being hollowed out from the inside.

He moved on already? But he sent me roses yesterday morning. The same bouquet that’s still sitting on my kitchen counter.

The contradiction burns. I stumble to my feet, legs unsteady, cross the living room in three strides, grab the vase with shaking hands, and hurl it into the trash. Glass shatters against the metal bin. Petals scatter across the floor like blood.

I sink to the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets, knees pulled to my chest, and more tears come. My body rocks with sobs so hard I can’t breathe. I press my palms to my lips, trying to hold it in, but it’s useless. I don’t know how long I stay curled on the cold tile, crying until my throat is raw and my eyes are swollen shut. Eventually, the sobs slow to hiccups, then to exhausted silence. I’m too weak to move, so I shut my eyes, hoping that when next I open them, it will all be a dream.

My phone buzzes somewhere on the floor. I ignore it. It buzzes again. And again. I drag myself up just enough to reach it. Unknown number. I swipe to answer, too numb to care who it is.

“Laurel?”

I sit up so fast my head spins, back pressing against the cabinet for support. “Mom?”

She clears her throat. “It’s me.”

I can’t speak. I haven’t heard her voice in years. Not since I left Philadelphia, begging her to come with me, and she refused. Said she couldn’t leave him.

“How… how are you doing?” she asks, voice small.

“What?” The question is so absurd that I almost laugh. “How am I doing? Mom, what—”

“I’m sorry,” she cuts in. “I’ve been wanting to call you for so long. I just… I didn’t know how. I’m sorry, Laurel. For everything. For all the years I let him hurt us. For exposing you to those men. For not protecting you. For not being the mother you deserved.”

I’m stunned. Tears I thought were done spill over again.

“The last time we spoke,” she continues, “you asked me to leave with you. I said no because I was scared of him coming after us. I didn’t want you to get hurt anymore because of me. But he’s dead now.”

My breath stops. I don’t need her to say the name. I know who she means. My stepfather.

There’s relief in her voice. “I just… I called to apologize. I understand if you never want to talk to me again. But I’d really like for us to reconnect. If you’ll let me.”

I swallow hard. “Where are you?”

“At a rehab center,” she says softly. “Getting clean. From the alcohol. Your boyfriend… Leonid, he helped me get in here. About two weeks ago. Right after… after Bruno died. He showed up at my door, introducing himself as your boyfriend, and asked if I wanted to get help.”

My brain short-circuits. “What?”

“Leonid placed me here,” she repeats. “Paid for everything. Said I needed to get better for you and for myself, too.”

“Leonid did that?”

“Yes.” Her voice cracks. “He’s a good man, Laurel. He loves you. I can hear it when he talks about you…”

I hear voices in the background, and some shuffling.

“I’m sorry, I have to go now. Time’s up on the phone, but it was really nice talking to you. I’m happy you have someone who loves you like that. I hope… I hope we can talk again.”

The line goes dead. I stare at the phone in my hand, tears streaming down my face. Leonid put my mother in rehab. He found and helped her.

Why? I shake my head. This is all confusing. He’s with another woman now, so why would he do this?

A text lights up my screen. Tasha: How did it go? Did you tell him?

My thumbs shake as I type. Me: It’s over.