I hear footsteps right before the door swings open.
“Mommy!” my little girl squeals.
For the first time in a while, she’s smiling. She’s carefree. She’s happy. It brings the biggest smile to my face, seeing her with joy and peace.
Behind her is Ace. He stares at me, scrutinizing, analyzing, almost picking me and my clothes apart.
“Mom,” he comments, standing there stiffer than a board.
Unlike Jaz, he isn’t happy. In fact, he’s angry. I can see it behind his eyes. The pain there is easily identifiable.
“Hey, Jazzy girl. Why don’t you go find Grandma and see what we can start for dinner, huh?” I coo, saying it softly enough to hide the tremble in my voice.
She jumps up and down excitedly. After I leave a kiss on her forehead and hug her once more, she skips away as I wait for Ace to speak.
He’s so similar to his father in that sense. His eyes are narrowed. They scrutinize me with a bitterness that only makes me feel worse. He’s finally showing me his resentment, that built-up anguish he suffered for years.
“Where were you?” he demands.
I choke on my saliva, coughing from the irritation lacing his tone.
He walks closer to me, standing taller than me already. “Where, Mom?”
His voice is kinder now, almost worried and scared. His body is still rigid, like he doesn’t know how to act around me. He hasn’t been given the opportunity to heal. I’ve hurt him. So damn much.
I pull him into my arms. It takes a few moments before he softens, hugging me back. Once I pull him into the room more, I close the door behind us.
“I had to figure out some things,” I try, sugarcoating with kids gloves and everything.
Immediately, as if I’ve hurt him, he pulls away. When I get a good look at his face, it’s beyond disappointed. His distaste for my easy answer has him thrumming with rage.
“Don’t bullshit me, Mom.” Ace scrunches his face.
Seeing him this upset makes me sadder. It’s because of me, his father, and what we’ve both done.
“Your language,” I barely croak, trying to rein in the agony inside.
“Tell me,” he growls, gripping my arms. “Stop lying to me. I’m not a child. I’m not.” He drops my arms, turning to head for the door.
“Ace,” I beg, wanting him to stay. I don’t want to ruin him. He can’t be explosive like this. He won’t find happiness if he stays this hateful. “Okay, okay,” I add, willing to give him an inch.
He pauses, his hand still cradling the door knob, like he’ll leave if I hurt him any worse. “So,” he demands. “Tell me.”
“I was at home. I spoke with your dad, and I left him.”
I watch for his reaction. His shoulders tense, lifting in surprise. Then, he lets out a loud exhale.
“Okay, so you left the dick that hurt you. Took you long enough,” he responds callously. His voice is strained, though. He’s in pain. He doesn’t want this, even if he thinks he does.
“We just can’t come back from this. Not right now.”
“He doesn’t deserve you to come back,” he growls defensively. He turns to me, his face wiser than his years. “You need to heal, Mom. I need that for and from you.”
The waterworks break free, blurring my vision. My son, my nearly sixteen-year-old son, has experienced too much in life.
“You’re right,” I barely get out over my crying. “I’ve failed you and your sister, and I’ll make it right. I promise.”
He comes back to me, hugging me, giving me that little affection he saves for these moments. “I love you, Mom. Don’t let the darkness win again. I was terrified when you didn’t come back last night. You were too happy. You were off... like before,” he stumbles over his words, the fear from earlier apparent.
“Oh, Ace,” I pacify like when he was younger, when he depended on me and not the other way around. “I’m in a much better place now. I promise.”
“I just want to be happy again. When things were easy...” He trails off, his body shaking with emotion.
We just hug for some time, and for once, I feel like I’ve done something right.
chapter forty
Jase
I give them three weeks. Twenty-one days to be without me. No pushing, no prodding, just phone calls with my mom and Jaz. She seems to miss me, but I haven’t heard a word from anyone else... other than Ellie’s incessant texts, calls, and need to bother me.
These weeks, I’ve been to work only twice. Sally has been on my ass for my recent lack of performance. I own the damn place. They can fare fine on their own. This time is needed for both planning how to fix things and think about what I’ve done.
This past year, I thought I had finally found a happy medium, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Ellie was a distraction since high school at that fucking drive-in until now. She’s always been here. Yes, when she kept trying to push closer, I should’ve dropped our friendship. In the back of my mind, I knew she was bad for me and Lo. Yet, they stayed friends and Ellie pretended like the few stolen kisses we shared disappeared.
There are many things in life I regret, but Ellie will be at the top of that list forever. And with her pregnant, how the hell am I supposed to fix that? How does a marriage come back from that? Especially when Lo and I lost a child. Ellie is having what I failed to give my own wife.
Vodka has been my mate throughout this entire ordeal. Luckily, I wasn’t dumb enough to drunk dial my own wife, but I cried a lot, all while holding onto her ring, as if it would conjure her back here to me. I screamed and yelled and took the same bat she took from our son and bashed more shit.
Our house is a wreck, not just physically but metaphorically as well. Our house is no longer a home full of warmth, smiles, laughter, and a family. It’s the wreckage after a storm. It doesn’t even sit on its legs but merely exists in the rubble we’ve created together.
The booze doesn’t help me. It didn’t back when I was a teen, and it sure as hell didn’t help when Lilac died, so why on Earth do I believe it will help me now?
Sitting against the frame of the bed where there’s plaster, sheetrock and broken frames scattered around to me, I weep. Along with the ache in my chest is a new hole, one of loathing and disgust, and it’s all aimed at myself. All for what I’ve done. All for my mistakes.
I count them over in my head.
The times I’ve been unfaithful.
The times I shared my bed with someone who wasn’t my wife.
The times I woke up in a bed that wasn’t my own.
The times I wanted to walk away from this marriage for good.
Now that it’s happened, that’s the last thing I want. Now that Lo is gone, she’s all I want back. She deserved more. She deserved better. She deserves Toby. Bile rises, making me sick for an entirely different reason. Did she go back to him? Are they together now? Laughing at the expense of my suffering to where they can be happy and raise my children? The rage from a frail drunk’s fears swells inside me. It chokes me with its purity, suffocating me with its punch. How the hell did I let this happen?
My biggest fear as a teen was Lo moving on with Toby. He makes sure to always choose her. He makes sure she comes first. He makes sure she’s everything to him.
How have I fallen so low?
I pick up the bottle of Grey Goose and realize I’ve had a third of it in the last day. God, no wonder I feel like shit. I take another swig. It only tastes like water now. There’s no way I can drive. There’s no way I can change my life by crumbling like a loser.
I think back to the first time I felt loved in years and then drink more clear acid, waiting for life to take me away.
“Hey, Jason,” Ellie says with a wave, her normal condescension nowhere to be found. She usually bickers with me like an old fish wife, but today, it’s like she’s giving me compassion. Or it’s just been that long since my wife has touched me. That could be it, too.
“Nora,” I gripe, my mood no better than befor
e.
“She’s out like a light,” Ellie ignores my nickname. She’s always hated it.
I nod at her, not knowing what to say. It’s not like we’re best friends. Our relationship goes up and down like the fucking Dow Jones. It’s never been perfect, but it’s been better since the funerals. It’s almost like she cares about me and wants to help me feel better.
She sits next to me on the couch, her jean-clad thighs hitting mine, like they did that night at the drive-in so long ago.
“The kids?” I ask. That’s the only question I really care about, and even then, it’s futile. It’s not like I spend time with them. If anything, I avoid them, knowing I’m a shit father.
“With Millie. She picked them up earlier.”
I’ve been at work all day. I wasn’t even aware.
She sidles closer to me, her hand brushing my thigh. I should tell her to stop, but I don’t. Her fingers trace swirls across my slacks, not straying from the one spot, but touching something that isn’t hers to touch.
“How are you, Jason?”
When my eyes meet hers, I can see the affection there. She’s not asking just to ask. She’s doing it because she wants to know.
“Not good,” I admit.
It’s been nearly three years since they both passed away. It’s been almost two since we’ve had sex, and it’s been six months since Lo has been present. She hasn’t had a day of clarity in so long. It’s like she’s here but she’s not, a zombie with a heart who doesn’t know how to use it.
“Anything I can do?” she asks almost soundlessly, her voice even softer, breathier, and gentler, if that’s at all possible.
I meet her gaze, seeing the same teenager who wanted my dick more times than I could recall, the same one who did everything to be with me but eventually moved on to Francis.
If he could see her now.
Maybe he’d be proud. She’s grown a lot, changed, adapted, and has been here for me for quite some time.
“Just sit here with me,” I comment, not wanting to ask her for what I really want—can you just hold me while I fall apart?
“I can do that,” she says with a small smile. “How about we watch Jane the Virgin?”
Chuckling softly, I nod. It’s an addicting show, even if it’s not my usual cup of tea.
She puts on the episode where Jane finds out Rogelio is her dad. We’re in fits of laughter during one part, and I bring her to my shoulder as she cries during another.
Eventually, I’m stroking her hair, loving the human contact while hating myself for having it with her and not her best friend. She still holds my thigh, rubbing extremely slow circles. Her hand is higher than earlier, almost like she wants something I can’t give, but it could be an accident.
After I fall asleep with her in my arms, I forget why I was sad in the first place.
I wake up remembering that night like a dream, and my head pounds, forcing my eyes to shut from the pressure alone.
That was the first real line I crossed, just by cuddling with another woman, wanting her, craving her warmth. If I could see what that started, maybe I would have walked away. The problem is, just like high school, Ellie has always been beautiful. But not like Lo. Lo is the kind of gorgeous that’s subtle and sexy. Ellie is the dark kind of beautiful, the one everyone sees, and she uses it to her advantage.
I thought I loved her.
I really did.
But these few weeks I’ve had to process things alone, I realize it wasn’t love. It was a temporary comfort, something I needed, but it was built on lies and moments.
I care about her. I do. I have since she lost Francis. I’ve cared about what happens to her and how she survives, but we took it too far. She shouldn’t have pushed, but she did. She wanted me from the start—wants me still—and pushes for more.
After moping for another five minutes, I brush my rank teeth to rid myself of the booze on my breath and then shower. Popping a couple of Tylenol, I pray they kick in soon.
Texting Ellie could only end in one way—disaster.
But I do it anyway. We need to talk. Heading over.
Her response is immediate. That’s what I’ve been trying to do for weeks, Jason. Talk. I love you.
Instead of responding to her, I put my phone away and get ready to start an even larger war.
She’s waiting on the porch when my car pulls up. Her face is wary but still filled with hope. It’s not something I want her to have. This ends now.
I’m silent as she leads me in her house. Soon, we’re sitting on the couch with a deafening silence. Is Gray here? I need to tell her, too. Just nicer. Less painfully.
“I missed you,” she starts, her face crumples with the admission.
Unable to offer a smile, I grind my molars. “I’m going to start with I love my wife. It’s not news to you.”
I pause, gauging her for any reactions. Her eyes are slivers, narrowed and hateful.
“You love me,” she demands, her voice hollow yet so emotional that I’m forming a lump in my throat.
“I care about you,” I argue softly, because I do. I probably always will. “But I’m in love with her. I want her, to be with her, to move forward with her.”
She stares at me with shock and betrayal. “I was there for you!” she yells, her tone higher and strained.
Tears trickle down her face, making me feel shittier. I can’t comfort her, though. The walls are back up, the barriers stronger than ever.
“You were,” I agree, my words thick with guilt, praying this ends better than I imagine it will. “You healed me, or, at least, started the process of healing for me.”
“I did more than that, Jason. I loved you, supported you. I gave you my heart and body and everything else I had to offer!”
Rubbing a palm down my face, I try not to raise my voice. “It’s over, Nora.”
And with those words, I feel at ease. That name she used to hate became the only name she wanted tumbling from my lips.
“Please,” she pleads once more, coming closer to me. “I’ll do anything, Jason.” I move away, keeping the distance between us, something I should have done long ago.
“Where’s Gray?” I deflect, needing a distraction.
“Not here,” she mumbles angrily, like her daughter is her last priority. Something I never really put any merit onto until this moment.
“I need to tell her goodbye,” I say, standing and heading toward the door. I’ll have to call her instead.
“Don’t,” she barks, her face full of anger. “You’ve already given her and I both hope of happiness, having it stripped away like that isn’t fair.”
I nod, then walk away. Wishing I’d done it years ago.
chapter forty-one
Ace
Mom has been sad. I’ve watched her. Toby hasn’t been by once, and Grams acts like everything is normal. It’s weird, Nate has called every day since Mom got back. Dad, too. Mom avoids both their calls almost every time, but when it lights up with their names, her face falls in response, and I know it’s because she’s scared. I’m proud of her for ignoring Dad, but Nate? That, I don’t know how to feel about.
Uncle Nate hasn’t been in mine or Jazzy’s life very much. I remember when he overdosed once, I was eight and Mom was frantic. She wouldn’t tell me what happened but her and Dad talked about it the next morning. Dad said he wasn’t allowed to see us anymore and he refused to give Nate any more money.
Mom wasn’t happy. He’s her brother after all. After a hefty discussion while I sat around the corner listening, they decided to cut ties. Until he came over, I hadn’t seen him since.
Now he’s calling, trying to make amends, I’m sure, and she ignores him. Who does that to family? Maybe he’s trying. I’d never abandon Jazzy like that. Never.
Besides her dislike for him calling, she seems better.
I’ve seen Mom smile more. It makes me feel less on edge, but I’m still worried. She’s turning into the old her, the one who hid beneath
smiles and niceties. She doesn’t see what I see or recognize that I feel the shift. She misses Dad. That, or she misses Toby.
Regardless of what she always told Dad, I know she and Uncle Toby had something going on. Maybe it wasn’t returned on Mom’s end, but he looked at Mom like he couldn’t breathe without her and watched her with love in his eyes. They all think I’m too young to understand, but I know. There are things you just can’t avoid, things that are beyond obvious.
When my baby sister, Lilac, died, I was a mess.
I love being a big brother to Jaz and would have loved Lilac the same. She would have been under my wing, too. She would have been protected, adored and cared for. It took me a long time to move on. I thought maybe if I was a better kid, if I tried harder and did better in school, things would get easier.
But you can’t change the past no matter how hard and constantly you try.
My sister swings in the back with Grams and Mom. She’s smiling, lit up like a Christmas village during the holidays. Mom watches her, a big grin on her face as Grams pushes her higher. This has been our routine for almost four weeks now.
They pretend life is good, so I pretend life is normal, but it’s far from it. The light in my Mom’s eyes dim daily. She struggles with everything, like there’s a big part of her missing. She probably doesn’t realize how much she touches her finger where her wedding ring used to be. She probably doesn’t even know that I know it’s been gone since she’s been back. Hell, she probably hasn’t even realized Dad had taken his off long before, about a year ago. She also doesn’t know that I overhear the late calls where she tells whoever is on the other end to stop calling, that nothing has changed, that she’s moving on. But I do. I barely sleep. I barely eat. Watching her like a hawk feels like the only purpose I have.
Gramps always tells me to take a break, that she’s okay, that I don’t always have to be the strong one. But that’s who I’ve been for years—the strong boy, the kid who pushes for his family’s happiness and care.
It’s exhausting, so much to bear that I’m in a constant battle of restlessness.
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