My stomach twists as realization hits me. She’s been drinking even though she’s trying to hide it by smiling at me. Then the reason she’s drunk hits me, sending panic through my body. I’ve been so busy freaking out about my own issues I completely forgot how sad she gets around this time of the year.
Alcohol seems to numb the pain. On most days, my mom is one of the strongest people I know, but not today. And not for the next few days.
I hate my father for turning her into a mess after he left when she was pregnant with me. Hate the cloud of hopelessness that hangs over her and the sudden fear that shadows her eyes. She must have loved him so much that the memory of him cripples her emotionally. It’s actually terrifying knowing I probably have the same capacity to love someone that much and that it could destroy me in the process. Which is why I don’t blame her or beg her to stop. I believe we all experience heartache in different ways. Some have it worse than others, and if alcohol dulls the pain a few days every year, I won’t stop her.
“Are you okay, Mom?”
Instead of answering me, she lays her hand on the table between us with the palm facing up. Instinctively, I place mine atop hers. She grasps it firmly, then fixes her gaze on mine. I watch the fear in them recede. Does she think I’ll abandon her too?
“You know you’re stuck with me, right?” I tell her. “Nothing will ever separate us. Never gonna leave the way my—”
She nods quickly. “I know, sweetheart.” She falls silent, her eyes losing focus for a few seconds. Then she shudders and blinks several times, her grip on my hand becoming desperate. “I want to tell you so much. So much, Grace. . .”
My heartbeat accelerates in my chest. The sudden change in her scares me, and I’m not sure I want her to tell me whatever it is that has her looking so destroyed.
She takes a deep breath, and the distressed look vanishes as quickly as it had appeared.
“You’re a godsend,” she says, her words speaking her truth. “You know that, right?”
She gave up everything for me. When I look up into her eyes, the blinding love shining in their depths comforts me.
“I know,” I whisper, still shaken from the change in her seconds ago.
“I wouldn’t trade you for anything, Gracie.”
That much is true. I’m alive and breathing because she traded her dreams to keep me. Yet I’m about to burst her bubble about the Brown issue.
“I want you to be happy,” she says, and I see and hear the truth in her words.
“I am happy,” I reply, but the words sound forced in my ears.
She studies me for a few moments in silence, then finally sighs. She pats my hand and stands up, swaying on her feet. And even though she’s drunk out of her mind, her words are steady as she says, “Go talk to Sol.”
My eyes widen in surprise. “But he’s a—”
“Boy. He’s a boy, I know.” She swallows hard, washing away the words burning her tongue. “Gavin hurt you, but that doesn’t mean all boys will treat you the same.”
I want to tell her the same thing. I want to tell her just because my coward of a father walked out on us doesn’t mean all men are bad. But I suspect that won’t go over very well. Sometimes I get the feeling there’s more to the story than my father simply leaving. Even my grandparents haven’t been able to shed light on what happened eighteen years ago.
Mom avoids men like the plague—except Father Foster and Mark, Beverly’s fiancé—which is why I’m surprised she’s pushing me to talk to Sol. I wish she had someone who loved and cherished her like she deserves.
She wets her lips and whispers, “I haven’t seen you smile in a long time. Until now. He made you smile.” She pauses, eyes turning misty. “It pains me to see you hurting.”
It breaks my heart to see you hurting, too, Mom. I swallow those words and just nod.
From over Mom’s shoulder, I see Beverly—Mom’s best friend and the other half of Deb’s Diner—heading for us. She eyes me with sympathy, understanding clear in her eyes before turning to my mom. She angles her body, partially shielding us from the growing lunch crowd, and I’m so grateful. Sol keeps sneaking looks in my direction. I’m not sure how long I can keep my shit together as I watch my mom.
Beverly is a year older than my mom. They’ve known each other since Mom arrived in town eighteen years ago, pregnant and almost penniless. Beverly took her in and gave her a place to stay in her family’s home until Mom could stand on her own two feet. I have a feeling she knows more than I do about my mom and her life in New York.
Beverly slides one arm over my mom’s shoulder. “Why don’t we let Grace finish the bookkeeping, Debs?”
Mom’s gaze darts to my laptop, then back to my face, eyes swimming with tears. I breathe through my nose slowly, trying to keep my own tears at bay. I hate seeing her like this, but I just have to remind myself she needs this and that in a few days, it will be over.
“I have a little surprise for you later,” I tell her, eager to tell her anything to cheer her up. “After we close the diner.”
Immediately, her eyes light up, and she gives me a wobbly, teary smile. “I love surprises.”
“Good.” I exhale, relieved, and grin at her. “Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, sweetheart.”
Beverly raises a brow at me in question, and I subtly nod to let her know I’ll tell her about my plan as soon as Mom’s out of earshot. My mom suddenly grips Beverly’s arm, halting their progress, and leans forward to whisper something in her ear. Her friend nods vigorously and tries to pull her past the counter to the back office.
Mom wipes her cheeks with her free hand. This time, the words are much louder when she says, “I don’t think I can tell—I . . . I can’t lose her, Bev.”
“You won’t,” Beverly reassures her, then murmurs something as she leads my mom the rest of the way.
The second they walk away, I let my shoulders drop and bury my face in my hands.
What the hell is she talking about? And why would she think she’s going to lose me, even after I reassured her?
Fuck you, Dad. Fuck you very much for turning Mom into this version of herself.
Does he ever think about me? Is he married? Does he have a family, maybe a daughter? Could I be replaced so easily?
My hands curl into fists against my eyes, and I breathe in deeply.
Just a few more days, Grace, and she’ll be back to normal.
I drop my hands from my face, but the hairs on the back of my neck are tingling like crazy. My gaze, like a compass pointing to a destination, zeroes in on Sol. He’s watching me with a troubled look on his face. He’s always watching me, but I’ve never given it a second thought. I used to brush it off back in high school, never holding his gaze for too long. But after our little chat today, his glances feel more tangible, and they seem to hold more meaning.
I summon the energy to put on a blank face, then look down at the laptop, ignoring the heat building in my cheeks. I’m about to grab my earbuds when I catch movement in my peripheral vision. I look up and see MJ marching in my direction.
“Hey,” she greets with a wide grin. She stops at my booth. “I’m Mary-Jane, but you can call me MJ.”