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“Of course, she knows. Nash told her.”
Her words were a noose tightening around my ribs. I didn’t think I had much more to be shocked about after finding out my mother was not the injured party but the assaulter—but I was.
“She knew?” My words were low, a whisper.
“Yes. He freaked out when you came back, ending things with Elena and him. So, he called her, begged her to talk to you and make you see sense so he wouldn’t lose you.”
“She did the opposite and pretended that she was the injured…fuck, Tansy, is my whole relationship with my mother a lie?”
Tansy gave me a long look. “Your mother needs help, son—the professional kind. I’m sure a shrink would have a whole damn list of diagnoses to write next to her name.”
I didn’t argue. I’d always suspected it, but now I was sure—Mama was a textbook narcissist—never the realvictim, but always making damn sure the world believed she was. And the people she actually hurt? We carried the damage, walking around with wounds so deep they became part of us, throbbing like an ache that never quite faded.
trigger warning
The following chapter contains a reference to a miscarriage and a past suicide attempt by the main female character.
If these themes are triggering for you, please skip this chapter. But if you choose to read it, please do so with care and reach out for professional support if the need arises.
CHAPTER 29
elena
Ilooked through the keyhole of my motel room door and opened it, puzzled to find Duke outside.
“You’re not in Dallas,” I inanely said as I held the door only wide enough to stick my head out.
I’d just taken a shower and was getting ready to go to bed, so I was in a tank top and sleep shorts. I didn’t want him to see that I was practically naked.
“May I come in?”
“No.”
“Elena, I’d like to come in,” he said authoritatively.
I took a deep breath. “Give me a minute.” I slammed the door shut and put on a pair of jeans over my sleep shorts and a button-down over my tank top.
I opened the door again, wide this time, and waved him in.
It was a small, forgettable motel room. The walls were thin, the carpet was stained, and the air conditioner rattled like it struggled to breathe. A single lamp on thenightstand gave out a dull yellow light, making the faded floral bedspread look even more tired.
Even though it was a non-smoking room, the air smelled like cheap detergent and stale cigarette smoke. The old boxy TV sat crooked on a scratched-up dresser, and a Bible was shoved halfway into an open drawer like the last person who had stayed here had started to read it and thought better of it.
Duke was booked in thebetterhotel, while people like me (the hands) were relegated to the dreary and smelly.
The ranch was too far to go back and forth, and many of the rodeo attendees were spread across hotels, motels, and RVs.
I crossed my arms as Duke stepped inside, his presence too big, too substantial for such a cramped space.
He didn’t look around, didn’t take in the details the way most people might when stepping into someone else’s space. His gaze was on me, focused.
There was no place to sit except the bed, so I decided standing was best. The conversation wouldn’t take long, would it?
“Well?” I resisted tapping my feet on the worn carpet.
“I talked to Tansy Hawthorne today.”
It felt like a bomb went off.