Page 91 of Thin Ice

"Liam."

He didn't answer. His shoulders moved. A breath. Something he was holding.

"I'm not going back to them."

He was quiet.

"I didn't go there to ask them to take me back. I went there for my mom. I needed to look at her face and ask her one question, and I got my answer. The answer was I'm sorry, and that's... that's all she had. That's all she's ever going to have."

I took a step closer. Then another. He still wasn't looking at me. I could see his face in profile, and his eyes were red, and his jaw was tight, and he was holding on to himself with everything he had.

"I went there because I needed to know if my mother loved me enough to say it out loud. And she doesn't. Or she does, but she can't."

My voice cracked. I let it crack. I was done holding things together.

"And then I came back here, and I tried to tell you and I said it wrong. I said the wrong words. I'm sorry."

I was standing behind him now. Close enough to touch him. I didn't touch him.

"You said I saw how you live. Like that's something I'd run from. Like the house and your mom's double shifts are reasons I would leave."

He flinched.

"Liam. Your house is the only place I've ever felt safe. Your kitchen is the only kitchen I've ever stood in where nobody was keeping score. Your mom didn't ask a single question. She just handed me a bowl of chili."

He pressed his palms into his eyes. His chest was shaking.

"I'm not going anywhere. I know you don't believe me yet. I know you've heard that before and it didn't hold. But I'm going to keep saying it until the saying is louder than the thing inside you that says it isn't true."

He dropped his hands. Looked at the lake. His face was wet and raw and open in a way I'd never seen from him, the way he looked when all the armor was off and there was nothing between him and the cold.

"I keep doing this," he said. His voice was rough. "You try to tell me something and I hear the worst version. Every time. I hear the version where you leave."

"I know."

"It's not about you. It's about. It's my dad. It's the same."

His voice broke.

"I can't stop being that kid, Alex. I try. I fight it. I know you're not him. I know it in my head. But my body doesn't know it yet."

I sat down next to him on the rock. Close. Our legs touching. The cold came through immediately, and I didn't care. I put my hand on the back of his neck. His skin was freezing. He leaned into my palm the way he always did, automatic; the body doing what the body knows.

"I should have told you," I said. "This morning. I should have woken you up and said I need to go see my mom. That's on me. The lie is on me. I won't do that again."

He nodded. Small. His eyes were on the ice.

"And you have to tell me when you're going to that place," I said. "The ten-year-old place. You have to say Liam is gone right now, the scared kid is here, so I know who I'm talking to. Because I can talk to scared-kid Liam. I just need to know he's the one in the room."

He almost smiled. Not quite. The corner of his mouth. "Scared-kid Liam."

"Yeah. He shows up sometimes. I like him. He just needs different words than regular Liam."

He exhaled. Long and shaky.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For what I said. On the deck. About you wanting to go back. About you seeing how I live. That's not. I didn't mean it."

"You meant some of it."