Page 69 of Faking the Goal

Mama is stubborn.

Always has been.

Which means there's a very real chance she'll keep sending Therese home early the second she decides she's feeling well enough to be left alone. She'll smile, insist she's fine, promise she won't overdo it, and then somehow convince everyone around her that she doesn't need as much help as she actually does.

And maybe she's right. Maybe I do worry too much. Maybe I hover. Maybe I've spent so long bracing for the worst that I don't know how to stop anymore.

But worrying about her has become as natural as breathing.

It's not even a conscious decision at this point. It's instinct. Habit. A permanent low-grade panic that lives under my skin and only ever quiets when she's within arm's reach and I can see for myself that she's okay.

I glance back at her closed bedroom door and exhale slowly.

Maybe I should stay here for a while.

At least until I'm sure she's strong enough. It'd be easier than lying awake every night at the hockey house wondering if she's downstairs trying to make tea by herself at midnight or insisting she doesn't need help when nobody's around to argue with her. Easier than driving back and forth between campus and home every day just to check that she actually took her meds, actually ate, actually went to bed instead of falling asleep curled up in that stupid pod downstairs.

The problem is, if I'm being honest, I don't know if there'll ever be a version of "strong enough" that feels enough to me.

Because somewhere along the way, after Dad stopped being the kind of man either of us could rely on, I got it into my head that taking care of them was my job.

Mama.

Miho.

The house.

All of it.

I'm the only man left in this family who actually shows up, and whether anybody asked me to or not, that responsibility rooted itself so deep in my bones I don't think I'd know how to set it down even if I wanted to.

Maybe that's unhealthy. Maybe a therapist would have a field day with me.

But I can't seem to make myself care.

Not when it comes to them.

So yeah, maybe Mama's right. Maybe I do shoulder too much. Maybe I've turned worrying into a full-time personality trait.

Doesn't matter. If the cost of my peace of mind is hovering a little too much and acting like an overprotective asshole, then fine. I'll live with that.

I push off the door with a quiet sigh and head for my room, already pulling out my phone.

First, I'm texting Therese.

Then I'm seriously considering packing a bag and staying here for the rest of the week. Or months, if I need to.

CHAPTER 11

TAYLOR

While everyone else is spending Thanksgiving demolishing turkey, watching football, and slipping into a gravy-induced coma on the couch, I'm spending mine hauling boxes into a new apartment.

I'm really nailing the holiday spirit this year.

I roll both shoulders and wince when the muscles between them protest. I've been moving since this morning, and now that it's fully dark outside, I'm still nowhere near done. Turns out relocating your entire life is significantly less efficient when you're the entire moving crew.

Whatever. I'll survive.