Page 17

Muir

I feel like I'm going to throw up as I weave my way towards my mother. It's the funeral, and the finality of realising Gramps is gone and he's never coming back, mixed with seeing her again.

It's not that I've been deliberately avoiding Mum. When she first arrived at the cemetery, I went over, said hello, and gave her a hug. It was a little stilted, but that's to be expected.

We've passed each other twice here at the pub, and each time I stopped and we chatted about things like how large the turnout has been, and Mum asked if Mrs. Mangle's meat pies were still the best thing about Scuttlebutt.

But we haven't had a chance to talk properly.

"Mind if I interrupt?" I ask as I approach her. She's speaking with Carly and Meredith, the closest thing she has to friends in town, even though she used to bitch about them behind their backs all the time.

"Not at all," Carly says, placing her hand on my arm. She gives me that I'm-so-sorry smile I've had so many people give me today as she and Meredith leave.

"Can we talk?" I ask Mum. "Somewhere private."

She nods tensely, like she's been expecting this. "Let's go out the back."

A few folks have spilled out into the beer garden, but it's a lot quieter and more private here than inside. We walk over to an empty table shaded by an open umbrella and take a seat on opposite sides.

The air between us is thick with tension, just like it was the last time I saw her over a year ago. Mum hasn't changed much—same sharp eyes, same calculating smile that never quite reaches them.

Her presence makes my stomach churn, and even now, at a time like this, I can't shake the resentment that's been simmering for years. It's like she doesn't even realise—or care—how badly she's treated me, and everyone else, time and time again.

I have so much built-up rage, but is now the time to let it out? Part of me says it's not worth it, to simmer down and not make what's supposed to be a day to honour Gramps about her, but another part knows I've bottled this up for too long and need to stop looking for excuses not to tell her how I feel.

I go with something that feels like it's sort of in the middle.

"Gramps left me the house, and if you intend to contest that, prepare for a fight because I'm not giving up on this."

The words spray out of me in a rush, like Coke out of a can that's shaken right before it's opened.

She leans back, scowling, and I fear that was too much.

"Sorr— Actually, you know what? No. I'm not sorry. For once in my life, I'm not going to apologise even though on this occasion I may have reason to. You don't get my apologies because you don't deserve them."

She narrows her eyes, aiming them straight at me, and asks, "Why do you hate me so much?"

"Because you're self-centred and treat people like shit. Everything has to be your way, and if someone disagrees with you, you cut them off. You picked men who treated us both badly and yet you still chose to stay with them. You chose them over me. You chose your work over me. You chose yourself over me."

She blinks a few times, but I'm not done yet. Not by a long shot.

"You never allowed me to be myself. I could only ever be a version you approved of. If I said something or did something you didn't like, you pushed me away. Notice how we're not in touch anymore? It's because I called you out on your shit, and you cut ties with me. I'm your fucking son, and I was just telling you what I thought, what I felt, and you…you…you discarded me like I was trash. Gramps died, and you know how much he means to me, and you didn't come to be with me. You barely even asked how I was doing the few times we spoke on the phone. Who does that, Mum? Who?"

She's shell-shocked, and I can't say I blame her. That was quite the spray, but I had to get it out of me.

"That's…brutal."

"It's how I feel." I shrug, some of the fire leaving me. "I'm sure you see it differently. We all have our own narratives, Mum, but this one is mine." She hums but doesn't argue. "You treated Gramps badly and tried to keep us apart. Well, it didn't work. He's the only person from my family who's ever loved me unconditionally. And he wanted me to have this house, so that's what's going to happen."

She looks at me briefly before turning away. I keep my gaze locked on her. I want her to know that I'm serious about the house. I'm not backing down on this, and it's not because I have a massive urge to live there or for any monetary reasons.

I'm sticking to my guns on this one because it's what Gramps wanted. And with him gone, it's up to me to make sure it happens.

For a second, it looks as if Mum's about to sneeze but instead she…she starts to cry.

"You're right. You're absolutely right. I'm a terrible mother."

Fuck.

Guilt swamps me immediately because I've seen Mum fake cry enough times to know these aren't crocodile tears. Maybe I should have waited for a better time.

"I didn't say you're a terrible mother."

I guess it was implied, though. Shit. I'm really not thinking clearly at the moment.

"No, you didn't." She fans her eyes. "Because you wouldn't ever say something that hurtful. You were always a good kid, and you've grown into an exceptional man, Muir. Despite everything I've done and the way I treated you."

I am so not prepared for this. I was expecting a fight, a nasty verbal exchange, and her storming out of here in a huff, threatening to see me in court.

But Mum actually hearing what I'm saying for what feels like the first time and taking some accountability?

Definitely not on the cards.

I'm so exhausted and drained from the past few days, I don't know if I have the energy to get into it all right now, but then again, who knows if I'll ever get another chance.

So we talk.

She tells me how much she loved Dad, and how heartbroken she was when he got killed because the life together they'd planned had been stolen from her. She tells me about her mum, how cold and indifferent she was, how nothing Mum ever did met the expectations Grandma had of her. She tells me how she's never been able to find love with anyone else, how the world is full of shitty men, and how she was so desperate to have even a fraction of what she had with Dad that she went along with things she knew were wrong.

Some of what she's saying borders on blaming-everyone-else territory, but I can see a self-awareness awakening in her. It won't happen overnight, but I think she's on the right path to seeing that as much as all those things may be true, we all need to take responsibility for the way we react to stuff.

"I'm sorry, Muir," she says, her face tear-stained, much like mine. "I'm really sorry. For everything."

"Thank you for saying that."

"I won't contest. About the house. It's yours, just like Sid wanted."

"Thanks, Mum."

"I, um, I should probably get going. Maybe we can see each other again before I leave?"

I nod. "Yeah. Of course. We should."

She gets up, and I watch her walk away. When she reaches the wide doors that lead into the pub, she almost bumps into Fitz. I'm too far away to hear, but it looks like they exchange a few words before she slips inside.

I manage a grin as he walks over, carrying a tray. He's been low-key glaring at Mum all day, and I've been low-key secretly loving it.

"I got these for you." He places four shots in front of me. "I can always get more if needed."

"That won't be necessary. But one will do." I hand him a glass. "To Gramps."

"To Gramps."

We throw back the shot of vodka. It burns as it slides down my throat, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. My chest tightens for a moment, followed by a quick rush of warmth.

"Are you okay?" He sits next to me and places his hand over mine.

"I think so. I told Mum she's not getting the house, and I may have told her how I feel about a few other things, too."

"So why am I not hearing police sirens?"

I smile. "She actually took it well. Surprisingly."

"Very surprisingly."

I lock eyes with him. "What did she say to you when she was leaving?"

"Ah, so you saw that."

"I did."

"Prepare yourself for another surprise."

"Now I'm scared."

He squeezes my hand tighter. "She said, 'Love him the way he deserves to be loved.'"

"Holy shit," I mutter, stunned.

"She's seen us a few times today," Fitz explains. "I think she could tell something was going on."

"Right."

A sudden, overwhelming tiredness sweeps through me, knocking the energy right out of my body. The stress and tension and grief all catch up to me, and I let out a massive yawn, not reacting fast enough to cover my mouth.

"Come on. Let's go home," Fitz says before catching himself. "I mean, go back to your place."

I get up.

I'm tempted to say he was right the first time, that Gramps's house is our home. Not because of who owns the place but because of who belongs there.

Me and him.

But I save the words for a better, happier moment.

I don't know when it happened, but sometime over these past few months, my friendship love with a side of confusing crush has turned into full-on love for this man.

I'm in love with Fitz, and as he slides his hand into mine and we duck out through a side exit, I'm more sure of that than I've ever been of anything in my life.