Page 53 of Heartstruck

Jared

The coffee shop feels like it’s closing in on me.

It’s too bright, too empty in that way that amplifies everything: the low hum of chatter, the steam of the espresso machine, and the clink of cups.

Still, what truly stirs me is inside. I should be used to this by now.

Should be able to sit across from her, say what needs to be said, and walk away with the usual sense of relief.

But I’m not. And that’s the problem.

This doesn’t feel like a normal meeting between me and my mom.

It feels like… like everything I’ve been avoiding is caught up in the space between us.

The past. The disappointments. The times I’ve had to swallow every shred of wanting a normal relationship and pretend it didn’t hurt when she disappeared on me again.

Part of me wants to bolt. I almost do when the door swings open and she steps inside, but I don’t. I stay. Because this time, it’s different.

She doesn’t see me, walks up to the counter, and orders an Americano.

I take a deep breath, forcing my hands to stop shaking, but they still betray me when I fist them against my thighs. I’ve been here for ten minutes, too nervous to get coffee, too uneasy to even look at her properly.

I don’t want this conversation, but something about Alli’s words keeps playing in the back of my mind, keeping me rooted here. As much as I’d rather be at brunch with Alli or have her here with me now, I know meeting my mom is something I have to face on my own.

Alli told me not to be afraid to feel things, to not hide from the hurt. Maybe it’s time to start listening.

It isn’t until she lifts her eyes, a wave of relief slowly creeping across her face, that something clicks. Her hand trembles as she brushes a lock of graying hair behind her ear, and suddenly, I can’t breathe.

My mom’s always been pretty, when she wanted to be, but today, she looks fragile. Like she’s been fighting a war no one told me about. The sadness hits me like a punch to the gut. Part of me doesn’t know how to deal with it.

I clear my throat. “Hey.”

“Jared.” Her voice barely lifts above a whisper. “You… you look good. Bigger. Football suits you.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, barely containing the edge in my voice. Small talk isn’t why I’m here. “You look different.”

Her smile slips, the edges tight with nerves. She pulls the coffee cup closer, gripping it like it’s the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her eyes avoiding mine. The words fall too easily, but the cracks in her voice? Those hit a lot harder. “I know I’ve failed you, Jared. I know. And I—I just… I’m trying. I want to try.”

Trying. Sure. She’s been saying that for years. I don’t have time for “tries.” I want real answers, not excuses. But I don’t push her yet. Not with the way her hands shake, like she might shatter if I breathe too hard.

“Why now? What’s different?”

Her lips tremble. I see her posture stiffen, then she forces herself to relax. She closes her eyes, mumbles a few words I can’t make out, and looks at me again.

“I told you, I’m trying. I can’t fix everything… but I want to, Jared. I want to.”

It’s like I can feel it. The desperation in her voice, the years lost, the apology sitting there between us like a mess of unsaid things. Still, I keep the harshness locked inside, refusing to show an inch of vulnerability.

“You could’ve tried harder.” It’s out before I can stop it, an accusation I didn’t plan on expressing. “You could’ve kept trying.”

“I know, Jare…” Her words are so small I almost miss them. She’s close to tears. God, why does it feel like I’m the one breaking here instead of her?

A painful silence stretches between us. It’s thick, and it sticks to everything in the room.

And for a second, just one fucking second, I let myself remember what it felt like when she used to call me Jare, when she said she loved me, when she’d sneak me Oreos after dinner, breaking all the rules behind Dad’s back.

I take a slow breath, trying to shove the bitter taste in my mouth away. The more I think about it, the angrier I get, and that anger claws at my insides. I stand up and circle around my chair, holding onto the back of it while her eyes are glued onto me.

“Do you know how many times I’ve sat there, waiting for you to show up?” I demand as my grip tightens and my knuckles turn white. “Or the nights I lay in bed, wondering why I wasn’t enough to keep you around? Too many to count.”

Her eyes water, but she doesn’t look away.

“You were always enough, Jared. And I’m sorry, so sorry, for every moment I wasn’t the mother you deserved.”

I feel like she’s not lying. A long exhale drags out of me as I sink back down, my legs too damn heavy to hold me up. The heat in my chest tightens—unfamiliar, sharp. It hurts, but in a way I probably deserve it. Like ripping off a bandage and realizing the wound never really healed.

Then something cuts through the tension, a memory of Alli sitting beside me on that bench outside the dorm, her fingers slipping through mine, her voice fierce and unrelenting as she talked about not hiding from the things we’re afraid to face.

And it brings me closer to the truth of what I’ve been trying to ignore: it’s not just about fixing my relationship with her…

It’s about fixing all the parts of me that were broken from it.

Her eyes await a response with honesty and patience I hadn’t seen from her before. Only then do I understand that I don’t need to fix everything today. We don’t need all the answers right now. But we can try—just enough to see if this could work.

I lean forward, meeting her gaze squarely. “Okay. We can try.”

She nods, almost timidly, but there’s something in her expression that sparks possibility.

It’s a weird kind of freedom, the kind that stirs some hesitation all through my body, the kind that makes me nervous but almost ready to embrace.

I glance down at my phone, seeing a text from Alli.

Alli: how are things?

“I have to go see my girlfriend.” I say, clearing my throat. The words tumble out faster than I meant. I really do have to meet her. Plus, I need to get out of here before the guilt sinks its claws any deeper.

“Okay. I hope… I hope we can see each other more.”

“Yeah… maybe.” With that, I stand up, moving towards the door. The conversation isn’t over, but it feels like I need to walk away for a moment, just to breathe.

My phone buzzes again.

Alli: come over?

The message offers lifting the pressure from a conversation I could never truly prepare for, no matter how much I braced myself.

Alli: on my way.