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Chapter Forty-Two

ROWAN

I t’s a fight to keep my hands loose on the wheel as I steer my truck onto the freeway. I can’t get the picture of Ruth’s stricken expression out of my head. Every time I blink, she’s there, looking so broken that I want to turn around and head back, to tuck her under the covers with me until nothing can touch us, nothing can make her cry.

It scares me how deep I’m in this. She’s got herself wound so tight around me that I don’t think I’ll ever get loose. All I want is for her to be safe and happy. I have to make a conscious effort to obey the speed laws in my attempt to pick up what she needs and get back to her as fast as possible. This helpless feeling is eating me alive, knowing there’s nothing I can do to fix this. I’m not built to wait and try to let a problem solve itself, and seeing her tie herself up in knots fuckin’ kills me.

I flip between radio channels, trying to find something to distract myself. I’m about to turn it off when my phone lights up with an incoming call. Mom.

I almost just let it ring. I don’t think I have the energy to deal with whatever she has to say right now. But she’ll just call again, send me a flurry of texts, or do whatever it is she needs to do to get my attention. It’s easier to get it over with.

I connect my phone to the speakers and accept the call.

“Honey?”

“Hey, Mom.” I try to summon some enthusiasm.

“I saw your last game! You did so good!”

That surprises me. I thought my mom had stopped watching me play years ago. “You did?”

“Well, I caught parts of it,” she admits a little sheepishly. “Your dad had it playing.”

“Of course,” I sigh.

“That tackle looked bad. Did you hurt yourself?”

I have no idea which one she’s talking about. I take so many hits during a game that I don’t bother keeping track unless it breaks a bone. “No, Mom, they patched me up real good.” I learned to tell her what she wants to hear a while back. She’s never liked the amount I get knocked around. When I was a kid, she wanted to pull me out, but Dad wasn’t having it.

“Oh, that’s good,” she sounds a little distracted. “Listen, there was actually something I wanted to ask you.”

Ah. There it is. She’s never been good at making small talk for long. I hum my assent.

“I need to go over the plans for your dad’s birthday dinner.”

Fuck. I should have known that this was coming, but I guess I’d hoped that denial would work out for me.

She continues, “I’ve booked a table at The Westin for the 14 th . It’s gonna be us, your grandparents and some people from Dad’s work. I just need to know what time you’re getting in. You’re welcome to come on Friday night and stay over. We can maybe do something nice in the morning before we go? I’m sure we’ll get the details together, whatever your dad feels like doing.” I can hear the faint scratch of a pen on paper, she must be flipping through her planner, making notes as we talk.

It’s all a foregone conclusion. She’s not asking. She hasn’t even considered the possibility that I wouldn’t be there. In her defense, I’ve never given her any reason to. I’ve always just floated along, perfectly willing to let her smooth things over, to brush everything under the carpet to avoid causing an issue. Now, though, the thought makes me sick. I don’t know what it is, but something in me has changed in the last few months.

It’s like I’m finally ready to be brave.

Ruth makes me brave.

Having her in my life, having her at my back and by my side, it’s as if she’s given me that final nudge I need to find the thing in myself I’ve always been looking for. Who cares if my parents are pissed at me? I’m pissed at them .

“I’m not coming,” I say the words before I can think them through, but the relief I feel almost makes me dizzy.

Mom’s quiet, her heavy breathing the only thing I can hear over the line.

“Rowan, don’t be silly-”

“I’m not coming, Mom,” I say with more certainty.

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t.”

“Are you busy? I didn’t think you had a game that day. I checked the schedule.”

“No, I just can’t.” I struggle through each word, so unused to telling her the truth. “Mom, I can’t do it. I can’t see him, not the way things are, not the way he is. I’ve been taking his crap for my whole life, and you just let him. You let him make me feel like shit about myself every chance he gets. Nothing I ever do is good enough for him, nothing’s right. When I think about spending time with him, I feel sick, like I’m having to psyche myself up for whatever fuckin’ thing he’s gonna spout this time, and I don’t think I can take it anymore.” I pull onto the hard shoulder. “And you never say anything! You just patch up his mess until I’m ready to give him another chance, but he’s never once said he’s sorry. I just, I can’t, I can’t see him, I can’t.”

“Rowan.” Her voice comes out hollow, and I hear that she’s crying.

I clear my throat, trying to compose myself. “I won’t see him, not unless things change. Not unless he changes.”

“But-”

“No. No, you can’t talk me out of this, not this time. I’m done with his shit. Unless he’s gonna apologize, and he promises he’s gonna stop talking down to me and criticizing every one of my choices, then we’re done.”

“Sweetheart…”

“I still want you in my life, Mom, even though I’m really mad at you. I just need some space.”

The silence in the truck cab is almost oppressive as I wait for her answer, but I feel a kind of calm I hadn’t expected. I know that whatever she says, I’ll be okay.

“I don’t know what to say.” I can hardly hear her over the traffic. She must be holding the phone away from her face.

“I’m gonna go now, but you can call me any time if you just want to talk.”

“Rowan-”

“I love you, Mom.”

I hang up.

My head hits the steering wheel as my body buckles under the weight of the adrenaline crash. I can hardly recognize this version of myself, but even as I’m freaking the fuck out, there’s a glimmer of pride somewhere in my chest. It’s never even occurred to me to speak to my mom that way, and now I’m blowing off family dinners? Where did that come from?

I pull myself up and maneuver the truck back into traffic. I need to get this God damn computer so I can get back to my girl. She’s like a lighthouse guiding me back toward someplace safe, like as soon as I’m around her, all this churning anxiety will just wash right off and I can feel okay again.

I need her, she’s home.