Page 77 of Just Between Us

I’mflat on my back, eyes trained on one particular glow-in-the-dark star on my ceiling.

It’s four days until Christmas, but it feels strange being in Texas. My teenage bed, my One Direction posters covering every available inch of wall space. I was just here back in the summer, but I don’t even feel like that person anymore. And I’m certainly not the girl I was when One Direction was still together, though I’d do some pretty shady shit to see Harry Styles in concert.

Not showing up for Christmas was never an option, but leaving Liam back in Singing River weighs heavy on me. He seems more himself with each passing day, but to my knowledge, he still hasn’t made that therapy appointment. I worry it’s only a matter of time before he’s back in the same shape he was in last month.

A light rap on my door interrupts these thoughts and I rise onto an elbow.

“Come in.”

The door creaks open and Mom peeks in. She’s still as timid as ever. but she looks even better than the last time I saw her. The frailty is fading, but it’s more than that. She’s not a wiltedhouseplant, forgotten and neglected in the corner. She looks like she’s finally been watered, lifting to life again.

“Ashley needs a taste tester. She told me to grab you.”

I know what my aunt is doing. Not long ago I confided in her how desperately I want to know Mom, but over Thanksgiving it became quite clear that there’s some sort of block.

Forging a new relationship is harder than I ever anticipated. A couple times while she was in Singing River she’d try to give me motherly advice and I’d bristle. An inner voice hissing “she hasn’t earned the right to give me advice.” But I’d instantly feel like a monster at the thought.

So, yeah. It’s safe to say, Liam isn’t the only thing I’m conflicted by.

Pushing upright, I follow her to the kitchen where Aunt Ashley is removing something from the oven. The scent of caramelized sugar and cinnamon hits me, and right on cue, my stomach gives a loud growl.

“Ladies, I needed a challenge.” She grabs some sort of spice from the cabinet and spins to face us, holding a plate of the most delicious looking pastries I’ve ever seen.

“Pasteis de Nata. And you two are my taste testers.”

Mom and I each take one, warm flakes of pastry crumbling onto our fingers. I take a bite and my eyes drift shut. Wow. It’s a perfect blend of creamy sweet with just the right amount of cinnamon.

“Ashley, these are incredible,” Mom says, and there’s something lighter in her voice. Dare I say, happy?

I glance at her, surprised to see her eyes lit up and unguarded.

“You think?” Aunt Ashley beams. “I went back and forth between cinnamon or powdered sugar on top.”

“You made the right call. The cinnamon is perfect.” Mom takes another bite, her eyes closing the same way mine did.

I should say something. Anything to keep the conversation going. But I’m frozen, watching this woman I barely knowexperience joy for the first time in who knows how long, and I don’t know what to do with that.

With my next bite, it takes everything in me to chew it up and swallow as something bitter rises up my throat.

Why can’t I just be normal with her?

I want more than anything to match her lightness, but there’s this wall between us I can’t seem to scale, built of years where she chose him over us. Years where she couldn’t even pick up the phone.

And I know that’s not fair. I’m an asshole who knows that. I have a master’s degree in social work, for fuck’s sake. My college internship was with an organization that focused on domestic violence victims. I sat across from women just like her and held their hands while telling them it wasn’t their fault. Staying wasn’t weakness, and strength takes a thousand different forms. Staying for them was the only way they knew to survive.

But knowing something intellectually doesn’t make the resentment go away. Why couldn’t she get all three of us out? It was Austin, at the young age of ten, who worked up the nerve to call our aunt and uncle.

I’m ashamed I feel this way. Hate that I can’t let it go and be the daughter she needs me to be right now. But sitting here, watching her happiness over a pastry, all I can think about is the girl who slept in that bedroom full of One Direction posters and needed her mom, receiving silence instead.

Appetite gone, I set my pastry on a napkin.

“Cassie? What’s the verdict?” Aunt Ashley prompts gently.

“Um, yeah, it’s good.” My words come out stilted, flat, and I clock the way Mom’s face falls, a small collapse, her joy dimming. I wish I could reel my words back in. Try again for lightness.

Aunt Ashley glances between Mom and me, and I can see her making a decision. “I just remembered I need to check on the ham. It’s in the garage fridge thawing.” It’s a flimsy excuse, and we all know it.

She wipes her hands on a hand towel and heads toward the garage, pausing long enough to catch my eyes. The message there is loud and clear:Be kind. Then she’s gone and it’s just Mom and me in the kitchen that suddenly feels too small.