Page 25 of The Rebel (Covington Prep: The Girls We Love #7)

I waited in the living room watching a highlights show of last week’s Premier League games.

I’d already rehearsed a bunch of internal monologues, going over the different scenarios of Mom’s likely reactions.

I didn’t like lying to Mom, but I reminded myself she was the one who said Valencia was adjusting to this new situation without her parents.

I could put the Valencia twist on it, but in a good way—wanting to include her in some fun activities to make her feel at home. Mom would be all for that.

And I was right. Mom’s scowl softened when I explained how Valencia loved sledding and though she wasn’t 100% on board with it on a school night, she was happy that we were helping her settle in.

It also helped that their trivia team had come first and Mom claimed it was knowing that Ouagadougou was the capital of Burkina Faso was what got them over the line.

I didn’t even know where Burkina Faso was, but Mom outright shamed me, mentioning a player who had been in my beloved Manchester City team.

“Wha—? What? How do you know that?” I asked in halting disbelief.

“He’s from Burkina Faso,” Mom said with a glint in her eye. “I wasn’t married to Dad for nineteen years without learning something about soccer.”

“Who was Dad’s favorite player?” I fired the question like a pop test.

“Sergio Agüero,” Mom said smoothly. “The Argentinian striker.”

I frowned, not sure if Mom really knew that or had remembered his name from washing and folding Dad’s many soccer shirts.

“He scored 260 goals for Man City,” she said breezily, “Am I right?”

I gaped, eyes wide, nodding in shock. How did I not know this about Mom? Oh, she had a Man City jersey—because Dad made it compulsory to wear one when we watched a game together, and I’d brought her a Man City scarf from my trip because that seemed like a souvenir she might wear in winter.

A frantic conversation ensued with Mom spouting Man City facts like a Mastermind contestant. Since Dad’s death, she’d continued to watch the games but I suspected she was trying to fill in for Dad not being here.

“I’m amazed,” I said, totally overwhelmed to know she was a true fan.

“Well, Dad’s passion was contagious. I couldn’t help it.”

“But you never acted like it.”

“I know, I just tagged along. And in the beginning I was just a fan by default. But I came to love the team and especially loved seeing you and Dad and Ollie getting all excited for games.”

“You should’ve come to England with me, then,” I said, remembering how originally there had been suggestions that Mom and Ollie fly with me to England for a short vacation before I started my school exchange.

But in the end it didn’t happen. “You were so keen for me to go and see a live game, but you would’ve loved it too. And Ollie.”

“One day,” Mom said. “One day, we’ll all go. It’s on my bucket list, for sure. But I think you needed that trip for yourself.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, sensing she was hinting at something a little deeper.

Mom’s lips pressed and her throat bobbed.

My heart skipped a beat as her eyes misted.

“We’d been through a lot,” she said, wringing her hands on her lap, “ you’d been through a lot.

You took on a bunch of responsibility while Dad was sick.

You really stepped up and I love you for it. You were my rock.”

From nowhere, my eyes were welling and dangerously close to leaking tears down my cheeks. I blinked rapidly to try to stop the flow.

“You still are,” Mom said, catching her own tears with a tissue.

My chin trembled, an action that is apparently impossible to stop.

I sniffed, I rubbed my eyes, I dropped my head.

What was going on? Mom shouldn’t be getting all cut up and grieving anymore.

She was the strong one, she was the rock of this family, the one who kept us going.

She made us carry on, one day at a time, follow our dreams, fulfil Dad’s wishes.

“Mom?” I shifted along the couch to be next to her, tentatively placing my hand on her shoulder.

I didn’t want this to be happening, didn’t want to see Mom having a meltdown, didn’t want her to be crying and struggling and not in control.

Because that was a parent’s job—to be in control, taking charge. “Mom, are you okay?”

Mom sucked up a sniffle and blew out a calming breath, dabbing at the skin beneath her eyes like she was worried about ruining her makeup. “Ahhh” she sighed, smiling reassuringly. “It’s just been a long day. I’m okay.”

I rested my head on her shoulder. No matter that I was too tall and too heavy to lean against her, but she wrapped her arm around me, her fingers threading through my hair.

“You needed to go away as much as I needed to let you go. You’re an angel, Jade,” Mom whispered. “But you still need to be a kid for a little bit longer.” She chuckled, “This year, at least. Be a kid. Senior year should be fun. Make sure you have fun, Jade.”

“I don’t get it,” I murmured in confusion, wondering if she’d had more than one glass of wine at trivia night.

“You had to grow up fast. Too fast. I hoped that by going away you could take a break. Unwind from everything. And I needed to prove to myself that I could stand on my own two feet, without you.”

“But you don’t have to stand on your own. I’ll always be here for you,” I said, repeating a promise I’d made to Dad: Live your own life, but all I ask it that you please watch out for your mother and your brother. I won’t be able to, so I’m trusting you will.

“You know I will, Dad,” I’d said. “Goes without saying.”

That’s why I’d resisted going to England, stressed over leaving Mom and Ollie behind. Especially when nothing had resolved between Mom and Gramma and Pops. Mom quoted every last legacy of Dad’s, reaching for the stars, dreaming big, living life to its fullest, practically guilted me into going.

“I know, sweetie,” Mom said, her lips pressing lightly on the top of my head. “But I worry that—,”

“You don’t need to worry,” I cut in. “And I’m having fun, okay?

” Though tonight certainly hadn’t been fun, not with Valencia and Ollie’s antics.

I was glad I hadn’t told Mom the truth—she didn’t need the stress, because though she was making out everything was sweet and she was in control, I had an inkling it was far from the truth.

“And Mom?” My pause was deliberate, a frantic debate in my head on whether I bring it up, because I knew she’d likely freeze me out, but I had to try.

“Mom...you know Gramma and Pops are there for you?”

Mom ruffled my hair before pushing me off of her shoulder and totally ignoring my words. “Hey, why don’t we have your friends over on Sunday morning? We can make it an English breakfast and watch the game together.”

Her ability to switch subjects was astounding. “No way,” I said.

“No? Why not?”

“They’ll be too distracting. Lucy and Vic won’t watch, they’ll talk all the way through it. They’ll just be annoying.”

“Okay, okay,” Mom pacified with a forced laugh. “We’ll stick to dinner.”

“Yes.” I stood up and stretched, trying to make eye contact. “Thanks Mom.”

“Thank you, ” Mom said, but she blotted her eyes again.

I picked up a pillow that had fallen to the floor and tossed it back on the couch. “See you in the morning.”

“Goodnight Jade,” she said.

I walked into the hallway as Valencia’s door clicked shut. I looked back in at Mom, cursing myself for mentioning Dad’s parents, but the ongoing saga couldn’t continue indefinitely, could it? Now I’d added more misery to her world of pain and loss—but when would it end?

Or, did it ever end?

––––––––

Mornings were always hectic, more so when I’d tossed and turned all night and woke up a couple of times and couldn’t get back to sleep. The issue with Gramma and Pops haunted me and played on my mind. And in the next few weeks it would likely rear its ugly head, with Dad’s birthday coming up again.

You’d think that when someone dies, you’d forget about their birthday, because when you’re dead you can’t actually get any older, therefore your birthday is a moot point.

But I learned that birthdays of those who have passed are still remembered.

Last year Dad would have been 44, and next week, he’d be 45.

Gramma had reached out on that day, the first contact since the funeral.

It was an email asking Mom if we’d like to celebrate Dad’s birthday together, his first since he’d died.

Mom said a lot of words she didn’t normally say, and Kristin Reid had come over and they’d drunk several bottles of wine.

I remembered Mr. Reid driving around to pick Kristin up because she didn’t want to attempt to climb the fence home.

Needless to say, Mom never replied to Gramma and Pops’ email and, in fact, blocked them, as she had their phone numbers and Facebook profiles.

Now, here’s the thing. June 10 was the first anniversary of Dad’s death.

So, it appears that when you die, your loved ones now have two special dates to remember you on—your birthday and your deathday.

And that was when Gramma reached out for a second time.

Though this time it was in the form of a handwritten letter.

Ollie had been the one who opened it as it had been addressed to The Sinclair Family. The plain card had been written in Gramma’s cursive script, asking how we were and hoping school was all good.

We miss Alex so much and think about you all every day. We hope that we can put the past behind us and move on together, in Alex’s memory. Love always, Elise and Graham (Gramma & Pops)

Well, I thought it had been a perfectly good letter, but Mom had shrieked and called Kristin again, but also Trina Wheeler and Laura Carter, and not only did the wine bottles come out, but bourbon and vodka flowed too. It was messy.

Thankfully, Ollie had gone to the Wheelers for a sleepover and didn’t have to witness the commotion, but I did. And the recurring point that Mom made over and over, was that there was no apology . Not one expression of sorrow, no remorse, no contrition, not even a simple ‘Sorry.’

Kristin, Trina and Laura heartily agreed that it was unacceptable and without a doubt, Gramma and Pops were in the wrong, the villains.

It was unanimous that Mom had been treated badly and their weak attempt to reconnect did not cut it.

There would be no reconciliation, no forgiveness. Ever. End of story.

Mom had cut them from our lives and that was that. Game over. Ties severed. As if they never existed. Dead to us.

But I now questioned how well Mom was coping.

Time heals grief, so they say, but Mom getting emotional last night and snapping at the mention of Gramma and Pops indicated wounds were still fresh, that pain lingered and tormented, and until there was a resolution, I suspected it would always be this way for Mom, unable to fully move on.

Mom called me her rock, her pillar of strength. I needed to step up. Because losing Dad shouldn’t have meant losing his family as well. My loyalty was stretched and I was in a precarious position, but I had a feeling there would always be pain if we couldn’t move through this.