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“Are you okay?” Mom asks softly, shifting from foot to foot awkwardly.
My angry instincts settle down a bit. I can tell she’s trying. It should make me want to try, too, but letting go of everything that’s happened isn’t easy.
“I’m fine,” I tell Mom.
She frowns, half turns away, then turns back. “I know I haven’t been the best mother?—”
“Mom,” I cut in like I have every time she’s started down this road.
“No, it’s the truth,” she snaps. I can tell from the melodrama in her eyes that she’s been working up to this. Even that is a mean way to think about it. The melodrama in her eyes… It’s a cruel way to categorize my mother.
She walks into my bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking across at me. My cell phone is facedown on the sheet between us. I almost want to hide it, like she will somehow guess what I’ve been doing.
Though, would she care? Ruby’s with an older man. Sure, he’s not crazily older like Colt, but he’s still older. And Luca is an actual Marino, not an associate. Is that the right word for Colt? There’s still so much I don’t know about him.
“Maybe I’ve waited too long to remember what a mother’s supposed to be,” she murmurs. “I’ve been selfish for so many years.”
“Why?” I say.
She bites down as if I’ve interrupted a prepared speech, but I don’t want choreographed apologies or rehearsed reconciliations. If we’re going to connect, I want it to be for real. I genuinely want to believe she wants the best for us. She’s ready to try again. I can’t accept that with a rehearsed speech. She’s given them many times, and they’ve always turned out to be vapor.
“Why?” she repeats.
“You said you were selfish. Why, Mom?”
She wrings her hands. For a second, I think she’s going to snap like the old Mom would. Then she says softly, “I think it came from when I was a child—never being told no. Then I let that carry me into adulthood, for years, always thinking I deserved better. I never stopped to look around and realize I had the best life a person could ask for.”
When her voice cracks, something changes in me. I’ve heard her voice crack many times, but often, there’s a forced air about it. Or maybe it seems that way because I can’t believe how quickly her tears come. Yet this time, they seem so genuine. Or perhaps I’m getting softer because of my, uh, relationship with Colt and my friendship with Mia.
When she starts crying, I shuffle up the bed and wrap my arm around her. “It’s okay, Mom,” I whisper, bringing her into my arms.
“It’s not,” she sobs. “You’re too forgiving. You’re too understanding. You should hate me.”
“I could never hate you,” I tell her, and it’s the truth. “But…”
“It’s okay. Whatever it is. You don’t have to hold anything back from me.”
“Maybe I’ve resented you sometimes,” I tell her. “Maybe I’ve wished you were different.”
“I understand.”
I hold her as she pushes her sobs back, and then she goes on, “Something’s going on with you, Lexi. You seem different, and down there, with Ralph?—”
“Was I rude?” I say with disgust. “I didn’t mean to offend his highness.”
“Has something happened with Ralph?” Mom asks.
I wouldn’t want to ruin your friendship with his mom, I almost say bitterly, but that sounds like the old Lexi. Maybe this is my chance to crack open my chest and share the darkness inside, but it feels impossible when I look into Mom’s suddenly accepting eyes. I can only talk about it with Mia because she already knows.
“I’m fine,” I say, which is not quite the truth or a lie. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
The last part is the truth, and it always has been. Whatever happens, I usually handle it alone. Though, now that I have Mia, it’s not entirely the same.
Mom sighs, then touches my hand, giving it a slight squeeze. “I’m here if you need to talk.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Once she leaves, I instinctively check my cell phone again. He still hasn’t read the message.
CHAPTER 20
Colt
“I feel bad for these people,” Dante says grimly, staring across the street at the party house, the lawn covered in beer bottles and lawn chairs and what looks like a rusted engine block from a large vehicle. People walk toward the entrance, twitching, seeming on edge, probably hungry for their next fix.
“You feel bad a lot,” I comment.
Dante glances at me, making me wonder again about the kid. However, thinking of him as the kid isn’t exactly fair. He’s only ten years younger than me.
“Are you ready?” he says.
I could ask him the same thing, but instead, I nod. Then I reach into the back of the van and grab a shotgun. I’ve already got my pistol holstered. Dante grabs his rifle and then pulls a mask over his face. I search for any sign of nerves, but he seems calm, borderline emotionless again.
