Page 79 of Just Between Us

Another memory I don’t have. Another piece of a childhood that only exists in her mind.

“Mom—” I start, but I don’t know how to finish.Thank you for trying? I’m sorry this is so much harder than I expected?

She waits, but when words fail me, she manages a pale shadow of a smile. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You don’t have to say anything.”

Then she’s gone and I’m alone with a half-eaten pastry and a lunch date with my mom.

Back in my bedroom, I collapse onto the bed and without thinking, I open my texts with Liam.

How’s Singing River without me?

Three dots appear almost immediately.

My Favorite Person

Quiet. How’s the family reunion?

Complicated.

My Favorite Person

Wanna talk about it?

Not really. I just wanted to hear from you.

I miss you.

My Favorite Person

I miss you too. More than you know.

I stare at that text for a solid thirty seconds, refusing to read anything into it, then set my phone on my chest to study those glow-in-the-dark stars again. Stars similar to ones I apparently envied Austin for having, in a house I barely remember, yet remember all too well. It’s a strange feeling.

Tomorrow I’ll have lunch with my mom. We’ll sit across from each other and try to build a bridge. It might be awkward, and odds are I’ll say the wrong things. But she’ll try and I’ll try.

Right now, though, I’m letting myself miss Liam. Even with things so complicated between us, I don’t have to excavate years of trauma just to have a conversation.

And maybe that makes me selfish, choosing to think about the man I’m falling for instead of my mother, who needs my grace. But loving her is hard work, the kind that requires tools I’m still learning to use.

Does that make me a bad daughter? I’m terrified that it does. But it also makes me human.

And right now, that has to be enough.

Ditto

The notebook sits openon the coffee table, my handwriting a mess of starts and stops full of half-formed thoughts and words that refuse to land right. I’ve been at this for over an hour, busting my ass to write something that doesn’t sound like an apology to a ghost. I rake a hand through my hair and drop the pen to the table with a quiet clatter.

Mutt snores at my feet, completely unbothered by my restlessness. Lucky little bastard.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees and turn to the previous page, to the name I finally managed to write without scribbling it out.

Julie.

Her name. Nothing else. But it’s there, real and on the page in black permanent ink. Five letters. A name I still can’t say. But I wrote it. That’s got to count for something, right?

I flip back through the pages, days and days of rambling thoughts, past attempts at articulating emotions I can’t quite name. My handwriting gets messier the further back I go, a testament to how far I’ve come the last couple weeks.

While I’m nowhere close to okay, I’m not as fucked up as I was a month ago.