Page 85 of My Favorite Hero

“It didn’t last. He started drinking again, they started fighting, and we came back.”

“For how long?”

“Six months, maybe more. Then he showed up again with the same story. Begging for another chance.” She met my eyes. “The problem was my mom loved him more than anything. More than herself. More than me. She always believed him. And once again, she agreed. This time, Lou was really angry. I heard them arguing and Lou calling her selfish. Telling my mom to let her keep me here so I had a stable home. I didn’t hear everything, but they were both mad. Lou told her if she did this again not to come back—their friendship was over. I think she thought Mom would rethink it and change her mind.”

“But she didn’t,” I guessed.

Casey shook her head. “Mom took me and left the next day while Lou was at the store. Dad was waiting for us at the bus stop. This time, we drove to Manitoba. Hours and hours away. I think I cried the whole time.” She shrugged. “And that was how it started. We went from town to town, job to job, province to province, him always breaking his promises, and Mom always forgiving him.”

“Rough life for a kid.”

She nodded, looking over my shoulder unseeingly. No doubt recalling her life. “He died when I was fourteen, and I thought we’d finally settle down. But Mom was like him in some ways, and we roamed. Never in the same place for more than six months or so. Maybe a year if I was lucky. She worked whatever job she could find. I was happy as long as I had a computer and could fix it or tweak it. I joined every computer club in whatever city we went to. It was the only stable thing I had.”

“No Lou?”

She sighed, shaking her head. Her hair fell in her face, and I tucked it back behind her ear.

“I wrote her for years and gave the letters to my mom to mail, but she never wrote back. I begged her all the time to come and get me.” She swallowed. “Then one day, I gave up and stopped writing.”

I frowned. I was surprised Lou hadn’t reached out.

“I think I became my parents,” she mused. “Never staying in one place too long. No long-term relationships, nothing. And I certainly knew never to love someone so much that I gave my life to them the way my mom did with my dad.”

“That happens,” I murmured, not liking the fact that she’d been adrift her entire life.

“Even after I moved out and Mom was on her own, we both did the same thing. Pack up and go every few months—I think the longest I’ve been any place was a year.”

“You’ve never felt the urge to stay? Settle in one town?”

She smiled ruefully. “Never had any reason to.”

“How did you reconnect with Lou?”

“When my mom died, we were living in different cities. I had her things put into storage, and it was a few years before I was close enough to go and collect them. Most of it was junk, but I found a box of paperwork. In it were all the letters I’d ever written Lou.”

“Fuck,” I muttered. “Your mom never sent them.”

“No. But she wrote Lou on occasion, and Lou sent me letters. Mom never gave them to me. There were birthday cards, Christmas and Easter cards. Funny notes.”

“How did you feel knowing she’d been trying?” I asked, edging closer, noticing the slight tremor in her body.

“Angry. I was so angry. Especially when I read the letters. Lou telling me she missed me. She loved me. That I could come live with her anytime. My mom had hidden all that. I wasn’t enough for her to stop the pattern with my dad, but she refused to give me a shot at a normal life.” Casey met my eyes. “She was selfish.”

“Pixie,” I murmured as she dashed away a tear, the sight of it doing something to my chest. “I’m sorry.”

“I was too little to remember a lot of details—like the name of the town. Or Lou’s last name. Covington was a big word for a kid with no front teeth. I called it Cusston, which always made Lou laugh.”

I chuckled, imagining a little Casey missing her front teeth and lisping out words.

“And I remembered Lou,” she continued, her voice sad. “When I recovered from the shock of everything, I searched, hoping she’d still be alive. Mom hadn’t kept any of the envelopes—just the cards and letters inside. One letter mentioned Covington and her last name Doyle, and I, ah, used my hacking contacts and I found her. I traced her here and I called her.” Another tear splashed on her hand. “She remembered me. We talked for hours. And we kept in touch. I called her every week—sometimes more. I was planning on moving here to see her, be there for her, but I was too late. I’d signed a contract, guaranteeing I would see the project to its completion or I wouldn’t get my bonus. If I had known, I would have said fuck it and come anyway.”

Her voice caught, and I shook my head, not wanting her to carry that guilt.

“No one predicted the stroke, Pixie. It was sudden. They told me she didn’t suffer. She was looking forward to you coming here.”

“And I’m grateful for that,” she assured me, wiping her face. “I almost didn’t move here—it seemed pointless when she wasn’t here, but I spoke with Sims, and he said the apartment was still here for me and that she’d left me money and I should come. He told me it would have meant the world to her. My project wrapped early, they paid me, and I was ready to move on, so I did.”

“I’m glad.”