Page 33 of Fragile Hearts (Hibiscus Hearts #3)

I can’t even believe I’m going to do this, but I need closure. I need her to know that this is officially over, and I will not have a connection to her any longer. Although she won’t hear a single word I say, too wrapped up in her own life. That’s what led to this in the first place.

After speaking with the officer who arrested her, I was able to get the information on where she’s being held, waiting for her extradition to California. I needed to schedule the visit, and I did that without being certain I planned to go.

But here I am, ready, my mind going in a hundred different directions.

More than anything, I need this for me. This has nothing to do with her and all the trauma she’s caused me, but more to do with me finally recognizing what I need.

It’s about self-protection and self-preservation.

It’s about growth, and it’s about leaving behind all the historical damage that has been done.

I check my purse for my driver’s license for a third time, my hands shaking as I do, and I stop myself. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes, counting down, letting my body calm itself. I can’t walk in there looking like I’m afraid or nervous.

I look around the house I share with Owen, taking in how wonderful it is, almost forgetting what it looked like just a few days ago. But that image will never leave my brain, and knowing it was at the hands of my mother makes it more disgusting than anything.

There will never come a time in my life when I forgive her for that. There are a lot of things I’ve overlooked, a lot of things I’ve moved on from, but breaking into my house, trashing it and stealing from me, that is unforgiveable.

Taking it in one last time, almost as a reminder of how far I’ve come, I leave.

Heading to the prison to do something I should have done years ago, but when you’re fifteen or sixteen, it’s hard to reconcile the idea that your mother is a horrible person because society tells you she shouldn’t be.

And even if she is, you shouldn’t cut her out of your life.

Society is wrong.

Wholly fucking wrong.

About thirty minutes later, I’m pulling up to the gate at the prison, giving them my name and driver’s license.

I’m told where to park, where to enter and where to wait.

I’m told what not to do, and what I’m allowed to do.

Every word of it I take in, not wanting to fuck anything up because just being here feels wrong.

There will never come a time in my life when I see the inside of a prison again. This is a one-and-done because I will never surround myself with the kind of people who end up here. The kind of people who are just like my mother.

“Sloane Anderson,” a woman with a gruff voice calls out. She’s holding a clipboard, looking around the waiting area.

It takes a second for my mind to catch up, realizing she’s calling my name.

I stand, walking over to her. She doesn’t bother to smile or introduce herself.

I’m one of hundreds of people she will see today, but a part of me wants to tell her that I’m not like the other people who are here, waiting to see their family or friend or spouse who is spending time here. But I don’t even know what that means.

Not everyone here can be bad, and maybe they’re here to do exactly what I am.

To cut the negativity out of their life.

I hope they are.

“You’ll have thirty minutes,” she says, each word monotone. “No contact of any kind, and when your visit is over, you’ll be escorted out. If you need to leave before the thirty minutes are up, use the call button, and the guard will return.”

I nod, signaling my agreement but not needing to speak, saving all my words for my mother.

This is it, as the guard opens the door, letting me into a small room.

In the center is a rectangular table with a chair on one side and two more on the other.

There are cameras in every corner, a mirror on one wall that is clearly a window on the other side, and I try not to think about how uncomfortable I feel, how completely out of place my body feels at this moment.

The guard pats me down, something that has happened for a second time. My purse is in a locker that was assigned to me when I arrived, and just like the first time the guard checked me over, I have nothing on me.

Without another word, she steps out of the room, leaving me in the silence of the cinderblock walls. My breathing is the only thing I hear.

I fold my hands on the table and wait. The sound of my heartbeat drums loudly in my ears, and I swallow back the urge to vomit at the idea of seeing my mother.

She’s going to be a mess, even more than usual.

She’s detoxing right now, having spent the last twenty-four hours without any drugs, and something tells me the people who run this place couldn’t give a shit about how she’s feeling.

Startled by a buzzing sound and the slamming of a large door, I look up, watching as the door on the other side of the room opens, and there’s my mother in the doorway.

Being escorted by a guard, her wrists are handcuffed, and so are her ankles as she shuffles in. Her hair is greasy, and her eyes are bloodshot and wrapped in deep black circles. She somehow looks worse and better than I expected all at the same time.

Wearing an orange jumpsuit that looks to be about three sizes too big. It hangs on her emaciated frame, swallowing her up.

With the guard’s hand gripping my mom’s elbow, she guides her over to the chair across from me, basically dropping her in it when they reach it. She takes the handcuffs off but then attaches her to the table with another one.

“Thanks,” my mom mutters, her voice hoarse and garbled, but she smiles when she sees my face. However, there’s something about it that makes my stomach turn. It’s fake and desperate, completely oblivious as to why I’m here.

“I have no idea why they think I need to be chained up like this,” she says now, and I close my eyes, willing myself to ignore her comment. But in her typical form, she continues. “It’s not like I did anything wrong.”

“Mom,” I start, clearing my throat, but she interrupts before I can say anything else.

“I told them you would come and bail me out. What took you so long?” She lets out a hard exhale. The smell of stale cigarettes fills the space, and I have to turn away to catch my breath.

“I’m not here to bail you out,” I say instantly, needing it out there. “I’m not here for you at all.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she spits back, agitated and bothered already.

“It means that this,” I say, motioning between us, “is done. I told you before it was over, but now it really is. I can’t love myself and have you in my life.”

She lets out a hearty, condescending laugh, her head falling back, and when she straightens up, her eyes look right at me, narrowed and fierce.

“Did you learn that at your therapist? Did you tell them that you’re actually the problem? Look at the number of foster homes you went through. You can’t blame that shit on me. That was all you.” Each word is laced with venom, poisonous and toxic. She rolls her eyes, laughing again.

I let her words roll off me, reminding myself that none of what she says is true. It’s all perfectly designed to try to fuck with me, to wreck me more than she already has, but it’s not happening.

“No. I don’t need a therapist to tell me my mother fucked me up. That screams loud and clear in my head every damn day,” I hiss back.

“That sounds like a you problem,” she now says, and I swear she has to get the last word, which only pisses me off even more. Not that I expected her to suddenly take responsibility for her actions. That’s never going to happen, and I didn’t come here for that.

“I could go into all the reasons it’s your fault, and it has always been your fault, but that doesn’t matter. You love drama and drugs and yourself more than you will ever love anything, including me, and I’m here to let you have that. Take it all. I want none of it.”

I’m talking so fast, desperate to get it all out before she begins to gaslight me or manipulate things the way she wants them to look or feel or be.

I stand up, and she does the same, matching me, her posture tense as she can see I’m about to leave her here, right where she belongs.

“Oh my god, Sloane,” she says, the words spilling from her mouth in a way that feels desperate. “So what, you’re just going to leave? You’re going to leave me in this place to rot? I’m your only family.”

Oh, I can’t even believe she said it, and I laugh, shaking my head. Walking right into something I didn’t plan, but it’s going to feel so good when I get the words out.

“I am going to leave. I’m leaving to go back to my family, the family I chose, the family who supports me and loves me unconditionally, the family who showed me what it feels like to have safety and comfort. All things you were never able to do.”

With that, I turn around, pressing the button by the door for the guard to open it. My mom stands, nearly yanking herself back down when she tries to walk over to where I’m standing, realizing she’s handcuffed to the table.

“Sloane!” she yells despite the small space. “You can’t leave me in here. I’ll die.” She wails loudly, and the tears begin to spill from her eyes, desperate but fake.

“Goodbye, Mom,” I say, shaking my head just as the guard opens the door. “Bye, Jenna.”

When I walk in the front door of the house I share with Owen, he’s waiting for me. Standing a few feet from the door, a smile on his gorgeous face, and it’s literally the best welcome home ever. Mochi barks, running to me, jumping up and doing a cute little dance.

Bending down, I scoop him up, holding him to me as I give a few quick pets before setting him back down again.

“Hi, sweets,” Owen says, embracing me in a hug, his arms wrapped around me, the warmth of his body entwining with mine. “How’d it go?”

“Good,” I say, meaning it. It did go well because in my mind, it’s over. None of this has happened overnight, it’s been a slow process of understanding that in order to live my life, I can’t have her in it.

Ever.

“Really?” Owen asks, pulling back to look at me. He scans my face, his eyes falling to mine, and he’s searching for tears, but he won’t find any. Not anymore.

“Yes, really. It’s over. That woman took nineteen years of my life. Nineteen years I spent wondering why I wasn’t good enough, but she’s not going to get the twentieth year. That year is mine, and every year that comes after too.”

“Fuck, Sloane. I’m so damn proud of you for choosing yourself. You deserve it, babe,” Owen states, pulling me in again, my head resting against his chest.

I feel his lips fall to the top of my head, leaving a series of small, soft kisses. He’s everything I need, everything I need to heal, and I will be forever grateful for him.

“Thank you.”

“I have something for you,” he now says, sliding his hand into mine. He tugs me toward the back door. With Mochi following behind us, we all head outside.

Owen is smiling bigger than I’ve ever seen, laughing when I squeeze his hand, and I try to stop him.

“What is going on?” I ask, giggling as Owen keeps walking, pulling me along behind him. “Owen, you are crazy. What are you doing?”

“Just wait,” he says, his feet moving through the sand just off the back deck as Mochi frolics alongside him now. Sand is being kicked up by both of them, and I laugh.

“I love that sound,” Owen says, turning to look at me. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “The sound of your laugh is like nothing I’ve ever heard. Perfect and musical and beautiful. I want to wake up to it, fall asleep to it, dream about it.”

“Owen,” I croon, and for the first time in what feels like forever, tears spill down my cheeks, happy tears. I don’t even know what to say, but I find the words, the words I know he needs to hear. “You changed my life. Because of you, I know what it feels like to be loved. So, thank you.”

“Thank you,” he tells me, shaking his head. “For taking a chance on a surf bum with a crush on a girl he knew would be better than his expectations could ever be.”

I throw my arms around his neck, pulling him to me as his hands float over my ribs and down my body, grabbing my ass, making me giggle.

Kissing him, our lips meet in a way that says so much without words. Soft and gentle, filled with kindness and love and acceptance.

“So why did you drag me out here?” I ask, curious as I narrow my eyes at him, eliciting a laugh.

“For this.”