Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
He nods. “Yeah. Everyone is fine. I guess.”
“You guess?”
He nods again.
You’re going to have to talk to me, kid. I scratch the top of my head and think. How do I get him to open up to me? “Does your mom know you’re here?”
“No. And I don’t want her to know.”
“Okay. But it’s late, Dylan. She will freak out if she can’t find you in the house. You know that, right?”
“She’s not going to know.”
“How are you so sure?”
He looks at the ground, and then back up at me. “Because she’s crying in her room.”
Oh, God. I grip the back of the couch and try to catch my breath.
“That’s why I’m here,” he says warily. “I don’t want to be here.”
I clear my throat. “Of course. But do you know why she’s crying? Is everything okay?”
He waits so long to answer me that I’m not sure he will reply. A myriad of emotions sweep across his features so quickly that it’s hard to keep up. The one thing I can glean is that Dylan is tired.
“Do you wanna sit down?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer but slides into the chair beside him. I sit on the couch, too, so that he doesn’t feel threatened by me standing.
“I’m assuming you came here to talk,” I say. “I’m listening.”
“Mom is sad, Jay.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re gone.”
I inhale a long, deep breath, hoping it keeps my heart from splintering. But there’s no amount of oxygen or time or conversation that can stop it from happening. Inside, I fall apart.
“It reminds me of after Dad died,” he says sadly. “She would smile and act like it was fine during the day. But as soon as Carter and I were in bed, if I listened closely enough, I could hear her cry. And she’s doing that again now.”
My head hangs in defeat.
“It’s my fault,” he says.
“No.” I jerk my eyes to his. “This isn’t your fault.”
“It is. I was pretty shitty to you, and I wasn’t very nice to her either.” He swallows, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I wasn’t respectful to either of you and it’s my fault you had a fight and it’s my fault you left and it’s my fault she’s crying.”
He struggles not to cry. I struggle not to march across the room and pull him into a hug. That’s probably what he needs, but that’s also likely to make him feel like a child when he’s very much trying to be a man.
“Let’s get a few things straight,” I say. “None of this is your fault. If it was, I’d tell you. I’d talk to you man-to-man.”
“Even though I’ve been acting like a baby?”
I smile at him.
I’m uncertain of how much to tell him. How deep do I go in explaining this complicated situation to a child? As I mull over the question, he sits stoically before me. He’s ready to take the blame as long as it fixes his mother.
And that’s pretty damn mature.
“You think you’re acting like a baby?” I ask. “Because I think you’re acting more like a man than I’ve seen anyone behave in a long time.”
His brows lift. “Really?”
“Don’t get me wrong. The shit you pulled at your house the other night was childish.”
Dylan’s face falls.
“But that’s the thing about men, and about people in general,” I say. “We don’t have it together all the time. And when we go through things that are painful or hard, like losing your dad, it can make it really hard to always do the right thing.”
He nods, watching me closely.
“Look, the fact that you came over here tonight—even though I wish you would’ve told your mother or left a note or something—because you have a problem and need help is mature. And being able to take responsibility for your mistakes is as mature as it comes, Dylan. I respect the hell out of you for that.”
His lips twist, and I think he might cry.
My heart goes into my throat. “What happened between your mother and me isn’t your fault.” I swallow. “Actually, it’s my fault, if you want to know the truth.”
“Why? What did you do?”
I can’t sit. I stand and move enough to try to dispel some of the energy building inside me.
“Do you know how the loss of your father makes you scared that you could lose your mother?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Well, I know that feeling. And do you know how that feeling made you angry? It made you feel like everything was your enemy. Your dad died unexpectedly in a car crash in the middle of the night, so you can’t trust anything. At any time, something might steal someone else you love from right under your nose.”
He nods. This time, tears well up in his eyes.
I stop and face him. “That pain is indescribable, and it puts you in panic mode. You push everyone away because you know you wouldn’t survive that twice . . .”