Page 31 of Fragile Hearts (Hibiscus Hearts #3)

My mom stares at me, her eyes wild, her pupils wide, but she says nothing, just pulling away from me, her face turning scrunched and sour.

I can’t even look at her knowing she did this.

Not that I didn’t already know, but this just confirms it, and my heart aches, my stomach churning, wondering how the hell someone could do this to their own child.

But my thoughts instantly flash to all the times she’s been arrested, all the times I was moved from foster home to foster home, all the times she had court dates to regain custody, and she didn’t show up.

And every single time she came back into my life, she sent me spiraling.

She can’t function normally, and for some reason, she hates that I can.

Not only did she destroy my childhood, but she’s out to destroy the life I created all on my own.

But she doesn’t get to win. She will not ruin everything good I have fought for and found all on my own because I deserve it.

“Owen, call the police,” I say without missing a beat. My eyes never leave hers, wanting her to see that I’m not afraid. I’m not backing down like I used to. “I told you I would get a restraining order if you came around again. It wasn’t a joke.”

All of this is now directed at her, and as much as I hate that she’s taken this public, out where the world can see, I can’t let her continue to do this kind of shit.

She laughs, and all it does is enrage me, my jaw clenched and my hands balling into fists at my sides. But I need to control myself, not let her see how much this is affecting me.

I let out a slow breath, hearing Owen on the phone to the police, and hoping I can keep her here long enough for them to arrive. It would be just like her to run, to hide and for me to be left looking like the fool.

“Come on, Sloanie. You’re being so dramatic,” she says, garbled and slow, and this is her go-to phrase. Always has been, always will be. “You can’t tell me that your boyfriend doesn’t have the money?—”

As soon as I hear her mention money and Owen’s name, I’m livid, cutting her off. “Obviously, this is about money. How much do you want? What can I give you to make you go away?”

She laughs, shaking her head as if this isn’t why she’s come around again. I remember being a kid, probably about six or seven, and she had me on the edge of the highway, begging for money with her. Promising me we could get McDonald’s with the money, but she turned around and spent it on drugs.

I cried myself to sleep that night, hungry and lonely while she was passed out on the living room floor. The next day, there was an eviction notice on our door.

“I could give you a million dollars, and you’d be back the next day,” I hiss, knowing that no amount of money will make this situation go away.

“That’s not true,” she tells me, completely clueless that I’m doing this to keep her here. “Sloanie, your boyfriend has the money. I just need a little to get back on my feet. You gotta understand that.”

“Oh, I understand,” I reply, stepping back to put some distance between us. “How much do you need? What would help you get back on your feet?” This last part comes out condescending, but I couldn’t give a shit.

“I don’t know,” she croons, trying to sound grateful, but everything about her is fake—so fake it makes me sick. “It would be great if I could get some money for rent. My boyfriend is supposed to start a new job next week.”

She has no idea I’ve heard all of this a million times, line after line of bullshit. It was always something when I was a kid.

Someone stole her car while she was pumping gas.

She was robbed while trying to buy groceries.

She lost her job.

She’s just waiting on her disability to get approved.

The rent check got lost in the mail.

The list is literally endless, and there was a time when I used to believe her, wondering why the world was so harsh. But once I was out on my own, it was simple, really. Get a job and work hard.

I’ve never once had enough money for frivolous things, spending my paychecks on essentials only, including my rent. It’s just what life is, and she can’t understand that. And sometimes, I’ll admit, it isn’t fun.

I look over at Owen, and he shrugs, almost like he isn’t getting that I’m not giving her money, that I’m delaying things so the police can get here and arrest her. I’d bet everything I own on there being an outstanding warrant for her already.

“How much are you thinking, babe?” Owen asks hesitantly, swallowing hard, and I give him a wink, watching his body language change when he realizes I’m not about to hand my mother a few grand.

“I don’t know. Any thoughts?” I ask him, and when I look back at my mother, she’s smiling manically, an almost giddy excitement radiating from her at the idea.

“Oh, Sloanie, this will help so much,” she says, again with the sugary-sweet tone that only makes me want to throw up. “I’m gonna get sober.” She adds this last part, and it takes everything in me not to burst out laughing.

Never once in my life have I heard her utter those words, and she has zero intention of doing that. I understand that drug addiction is an illness, but I can’t be a part of it any longer. I’m a casualty of her addiction, and I won’t let it continue.

“That would be wonderful,” I tell her, meaning it, wanting her to get her life in order, but after nearly thirty years of addiction, I can’t see it happening.

“So, the money,” she now says, changing the subject with an eagerness to her words. “Can you get me cash?”

It’s with those words that the police pull up, my mother blissfully unaware of what’s about to happen.

As always, she’s more concerned with getting her next fix, and the money we’ve promised will help with that.

She’d rather sleep on the beach with a pocket full of meth than in an apartment she paid for with her own money.

And that tells me everything I need to know.

The police walk up, finding us standing together, and Owen motions to my mom, who is now ringing her hands, her eyes looking anywhere but at the officers.

It’s the same two guys who showed up at our house.

The ones who have the picture from the pawn shop, and if I’m lucky, they’ll be the ones to arrest her too.

She’s going to run, and if they don’t act fast, she’ll be out of here before they realize what’s happening.

“Jenna Anderson?” one of the officers says, and she holds a hand up, shielding her eyes from the setting sun.

“Yeah,” she replies slowly, like she knows things are about to go south.

“We have a warrant out for your arrest,” he says. “We need to take you in.”

“For what?” she shouts, aghast. “You don’t know it was me that broke into their house. These are my headphones, and that guy at the pawn shop, he wouldn’t even give me anything for the laptops.”

She’s so high she doesn’t even know what she’s saying, just giving herself away with the comment about the laptop and the pawn shop.

“No one said anything about a laptop or a pawn shop,” the officer responds, his partner letting out a low chuckle.

The partner walks over, beginning to recite the Miranda warning as he pulls her hands behind her back, holding her in place. She begins to wail, crying so hard that she can’t catch her breath, and holy shit, it brings back memories.

I look away, my heart slamming hard in my chest, the tears beginning to pool in my own eyes.

Watching her get arrested is way too triggering.

And I think of turkey sandwiches on wheat bread in a brown paper bag.

Crisp white sheets that smell of bleach.

The kindness of the police officers who would load me into the back of their cruisers and take me to the station until social services would show up.

Falling asleep on a cot in a back room at the station.

Sleeping like a rock and begging them to let me stay.

“Sloanie,” my mom wails as they load her into the back of the car. “Can you bail me out?”

I can’t even look at her, everything in me aches for it to just be over. For her to leave my life and never return. Continuing to live like this is too much, and it ends here.

“No, Mom,” I say, never looking at her. “I need you to stay away from me. Forever.”

With that, the officer closes the door, her muffled cries now nearly silenced, and I swallow back my own tears. I don’t need to cry anymore, not wasting another moment of energy on her.

“There are a few things going on here,” Officer Pearson says, talking now to Owen and me. “We’ll book her on a petty theft charge from a few months back, and once we get her booked, we’ll be able to have Drew Townsend from the pawn shop identify her in a lineup.”

“And will she go to jail?” I now ask, really needing her to be somewhat permanently removed from my life.

“Probably not here,” the officer says, shaking his head. “But she will be extradited to California, where she will be on trial for involuntary manslaughter.”

“What?” I gasp out.

“About two years ago, she killed the driver of another vehicle and her passenger when she had an accident while under the influence. She bonded out, and as soon as she did, she left California. Illegally.”

“Holy shit,” I mutter, my hand covering my mouth, and as awful as it is, there’s not a chance she isn’t going to serve jail time for it.

“Yeah, so you aren’t going to have to worry about her for a while,” Officer Pearson tells me, and it’s like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. My body sags with relief, knowing she won’t be back for a long time.

Maybe she can get clean while she’s in prison. God knows she needs it.

Owen and I watch the police car drive away, taking with it years of trauma, and all I can hope is that this is the end.

I will be filing the restraining order, but even if my mom is found not guilty on the involuntary manslaughter charges, she won’t have the money to get back to Hawaii anyway.

It’s a mystery to me how she got to California and back in the first place.

But I refuse to dedicate any more time to thinking about her and her disastrous life.

“You okay?” Owen asks me, pulling me into his side for a hug. As his arms tighten around me, supporting me through all of this, he’s my forever.

There is no one like him, no one I’ve ever met who would stay through this and still love me the way he does.

“I’m okay. I really just want to go home,” I tell him, looking up, my eyes wet with tears, trying like hell to keep them at bay.

“You sure?” he asks. “We can go to my sister’s place. She’s not there. Or to Orchid Bay for the night.” He’s thought of everything, all for me, all to make sure I feel safe.

“I want to go home to our house, Owen. She doesn’t get to take that from me.” I let out a hard exhale, exhausted and mentally checked out. This has been a hell of a week, and something I never want to relive.

“Whatever you want,” Owen says sweetly, weaving his fingers through mine and wrapping Mochi’s leash around his other hand. “If you wake up in the night and want to leave, just say it. I’ll take you wherever you want. You and this guy.”

He looks down at Mochi, who is anxiously awaiting his walk home. His tail is wagging all over the place, happy as can be now that things have settled down.

“He looked pretty damn tough, didn’t he?” I say as we begin to head home. “He showed his teeth.”

“Mochi’s a badass.”

As soon as we get back to the house, Owen sets the alarm and checks the new doorbell camera. There’s been nothing. No activity since we left and none since the break-in, and the house feels quiet and calm like it used to.

It feels like home.

“You good?” Owen asks me as I stand in the living room, everything back where it should be.

I close my eyes, loving the sound of silence, the smell of the house, the beauty of a place I call home. It all feels perfect, the way I’ve wanted it to for so long.

“I’m good,” I tell him, nodding, and I walk over to where he’s standing. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pull him in for a kiss. “Thank you. Because of you, this is my safe space.”

“Whatever you need, babe.”

“I need you.”