I exhale heavily, silently praying for strength that is in diminishing supply. “Sit up,” I say in a more forthright tone. “Eat something, and then I’ll get your migraine meds.” My eyes sweep over the pill bottles on her bedside table, most of the contents gone. An empty vodka bottle lies across the carpeted floor. Vodka is her poison of choice because it’s odorless and it can’t be smelled on your breath. She told me that one time, when she was explaining how she manages to function in public when attending one of Dad’s events. It takes a lot for her to get drunk these days, so downing a half bottle of vodka before she leaves the house slices the edge off her nerves while enabling her to play the part of rich attorney’s wife to perfection.
“Leave me alone.” She swats at me again, and I rub a tense spot between my brows, struggling to hold on to my patience.
I don’t ever want to lose my temper or lash out at her. She deals with enough of that from my dad, but she makes it so hard to be kind and loving and patient. “Diana.” My tone is firm and bordering on aggressive as I say what I need to say. “Sit the fuck up and eat or I’m calling Dad.” I never would, and she knows it, yet we play our usual game.
Her eyes pop open, and her mouth curls into a frown. “Don’t call me that. I’m Mom to you.”
I wish she was. But the only parental figure around here is me. Which is fucking laughable. I only turned eighteen during the summer, but sometimes I feel ancient.
Like I have lived a thousand lifetimes in those eighteen years and I’m world-weary.
“You need to eat, Mom.” I help her to sit up against the headboard, hating how frail she feels under my large palms. “You’re too thin. You need to take better care of yourself.” I know I’m preaching to a void, but I won’t ever stop trying.
“You’re a good boy, Vander,” she says, in a moment of rare acknowledgment. Her fingers sweep the hair tumbling across my brow, pushing it out of my eyes. “A good son.” Her tired green eyes lock on to my face. “You’re the only one who cares.” Sadness is a dark shroud covering her face, and I wish I could contest her statement, but I won’t lie to her. Her parents are dead, she is an only child, and she has no true friendships. Only acquaintances. Most are the wives of men Dad does business with or wives of his golf buddies at the nearby club and resort, and they only tolerate her at best. Her only friend—an old roommate from college—lives in Europe with her husband, and she hasn’t seen her in years.
“I love you.” Gently, I give her a hug, squeezing my eyes shut when her fragile limbs cling to me in desperation.
“I love you too.” When she pulls back, tears are rolling down her face. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better mother. I’m sorry I’m so weak.”
I have heard all of this before. Along with futile promises to change. She has tried. Countless times. But it’s never enough. I am never enough. And I have had to come to terms with our one-sided relationship because continuing to harbor hope was killing me.
I sit on the side of the bed, spoon-feeding my grown-ass mother the smoked-salmon scrambled eggs I made her because her hands are shaking so bad she can’t hold the silverware. As I make my mother eat, I wonder what the fuck I did to deserve this shitty life.
After she has finished, I hand her the migraine meds and a glass of water, staying beside her until she falls back asleep. My heart feels like a lump of stone in my chest as I watch her sleep, imagining how and when this will end. Because it can’t continue like this. Slowly, she is killing herself, and I’m forced to be a bystander. I wish I knew how to help her, but none of my interventions ever work. And they never will. Not as long as it suits my father to keep my mother in chains.
I scrub my hands over my face, and my limbs feel weary with exhaustion as my cell vibrates in my pocket. It’s a text from West, inviting me to Sunday dinner. It’s a long-standing invitation. One Kendall issued when she realized the kind of homelife I’m forced to endure. I haven’t attended in months because I’m trying to stay away from her—the woman who is the holder of my heart and my dreams.
But I’m vulnerable today. A bit hungover from last night and heartsore because Mom is a freaking mess. Seeing Kendall’s face will make everything seem better. So, I message West back, telling him I’ll be over later.
My mind churns as I exit Mom’s bedroom and quietly close the door, my thoughts instantly turning to the woman I have forbidden feelings for. I used to think the way I felt about Kendall was because she’s the perfect example of how a mother should be. Like she was the embodiment of everything I should have and was denied. That I was compensating for the lack of motherly affection in my life by channeling those sentiments in her direction.
But now I’m older, I know I was wrong.
That’s not it at all.
The feelings I have for her are not motherly in any way, shape, or form.
And I’m not compensating for the lack of a mother figure in my life.
It’s just her.
Everything about her enchants me. It’s not only her gorgeous face and tempting body. It’s the very essence of who she is as a person. Something in her speaks to the very core of me, in a way I can’t properly explain. No other woman has ever attracted me on this level, and I’m beginning to think no other woman will.
Kendall is one of a kind. From her carefree sense of humor to her obvious intelligence. Her compassionate and caring nature that sees her sacrifice and do so much for her loved ones and the community. A shared passion for understanding the intangible and the inexplicable, and her dogged determination to live the fullest life. She inspires me and gives me hope, and I can’t help but be drawn to her.
Society would say it’s wrong to feel like this.
That I’m too young—for her and to know my own mind.
But I do know my own mind.
I know what I’m feeling.
What I have felt from the moment she first entered my orbit.
I couldn’t explain it then.
But I can now.
I’m in love with Kendall Hawthorne.
I love my best friend’s very married mother.
I just don’t know what the hell to do about it.
3
KENDALL
The doorbell chimes, and butterflies swoop into my belly. I hadn’t expected Vander to accept West’s invitation. He seems determined not to join us for Sunday dinner anymore, and while it disappoints me, I know it’s for the best. I’m not sure what’s changed today, but I know why my stomach is lurching like a herd of wild elephants is stomping all over it.
“I’ll get it.” West yells from the living room, at the same time Stella puts the chef’s knife down and moves away from the kitchen counter.
“Stay put, missy.” I pitch her a knowing look. “Let your brother greet his friend.” Stella will try everything and anything to get out of helping around the house. While I have tried to pass my love of cooking and baking to my only daughter, I threw in the towel a long time ago.
Stella is the quintessential tomboy, more at home playing sports and climbing trees than slaving over a hot stove, and I wouldn’t have her any other way. She is true to herself, and she owns it, making me incredibly proud. Yet, I worry about her more than the boys because she is stubbornly brave and reckless and prone to acting without thinking.