Page 16 of When We Were More (Aron Falls #1)

H enry

I’m acutely aware of what today is about.

It’s not that Mom never sets up impromptu lunch or coffee dates with her sons.

Usually, except today, she doesn’t insist that they happen at her house.

Our mom is a very social person who loves being out and about.

I’m sure she wants to do this in the privacy of her home because she wants to discuss how I’m handling her dating again.

I’ve left the girls with Sally, and standing on Mom’s porch, I take a deep breath, then let it out before I turn the doorknob and enter the house.

“Mom? I’m here!”

I toe off my shoes, then take off my coat, and hang it up before I follow the aroma of what I hope are Mom’s blueberry-lemon muffins. They’ve always been my absolute favorite. If she’s made them, I’ll be curious whether it’s to comfort me during a difficult discussion or to distract me from it.

As I step into the kitchen, sure enough, Mom is setting a plate of muffins on the table.

“Yes! I was hoping my sense of smell wasn’t lying to me.” I walk over and kiss her on the cheek.

“Hi, honey.”

“Hey, Ma. I’ll pour our coffee. You sit and relax.”

I get our drinks, then sit across from Mom as we both pick at our muffins in between sips of coffee.

I groan and close my eyes as I taste the moist muffin with enough lemon to make it taste perfect. I swallow my mouthful, then rinse it down with a sip of coffee.

“Oh my God, Mom. Every time you make these, I realize that I forgot how delicious they are. Thanks for baking them.”

My mom smiles and laughs. Still, the way she keeps running her cloth napkin between her thumb and forefinger gives away that she’s stressed.

“Of course. They’re your favorite.” She looks down at her hands and twirls her wedding rings on her finger.

That’s when I notice they’re on her right hand now, not her left.

I wonder when that happened. “They were your dad’s favorite as well.

” Mom looks up at me and smiles, but there’s a hint of sadness in her eyes.

“You moved your rings.” It comes out almost as a whisper. I stare at her hand.

“Yeah, I did.” She doesn’t take her eyes off her hand for several long seconds.

Then, she peers up at me, the sadness gone.

“I want to keep wearing them because my marriage to your dad meant everything to me, and the memories I have are comforting. But I’m ready to see what my future may hold.

I’m ready to think about allowing love—romantic love—into my life again. ”

I should tell her I love her and support her. I should keep my mouth shut. But I can’t.

“Why? Why in the hell would you want to do that, Mom?” I don’t want to be, but I’m angry at her. Not furious, but there’s an undercurrent of irritation swirling in my chest, and it comes out in my voice.

“Henry…” Her voice is kind, soothing. She reaches across the table and wraps her small fingers around my fisted hand as it rests on the table.

“No, Mom. I’m not asking rhetorically. I need to know why.” She opens her mouth like she’s going to speak, but she doesn’t get a chance because now that my words are flowing, I can’t stop them. “I remember what it was like for you after Dad died. Don’t you?”

She sucks in a breath. “Of course I do.”

“Mom, you didn’t get out of bed for weeks.

I couldn’t get you out of bed for weeks.

Even then, you suffered for ages. You lost twenty-five pounds you didn’t need to lose.

I’d start to think you were improving, and then something worse would happen.

Like finding you in the closet lying on the floor, sobbing, surrounded by Dad’s clothes when he’d been gone six months! ”

She pulls her hand from mine and wipes at her eyes. I feel like an asshole. Who makes their mom cry?

“You should never have had to see all of that, and I’m sorry you did. Your dad’s death broke me, Henry.”

“No, Mom. Love broke you. Not death. Death makes anyone sad, sure, but it’s love that breaks you. I’m not begrudging having to help you when you needed me. I’m upset that you’d put yourself at risk again.”

“I’m not putting myself at risk, Hen?—”

I stand before I even think about it. “I found you!” I don’t mean to raise my voice.

I pace the floor, hands in my hair. “I found you on that bathroom floor, sobbing, holding a handful of sleeping pills two years after he died. Two years. Harrison and I thought you were okay, and then I found you like that.”

She’s standing now, too. She walks over to me. I want to walk away, but I don’t.

“Henry, I’ve told you I wasn’t looking to take?—”

“It doesn’t matter. It matters that you had me scared enough, anxious enough, that I thought you were going to hurt yourself.

Any thought I had before that day that you were getting better was gone in an instant.

Why do you think I decided to move back here?

It wasn’t because I wanted to be the twenty-four-year-old still living at home.

” Tears stream down her face. But the floodgates of my emotions are open, and there’s no closing them.

“Do you know how long it was before I could sleep through the night again? Before I stopped setting a three a.m. alarm to peek in and make sure you were okay?”

A gasp escapes her.

“I’m sorry, Henry. So, so, sorry.”

She looks devastated, and I hate that I couldn’t control myself, and I spewed this all out at her. I step forward and pull her into a hug. I’m instantly sorry for my outburst.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t have vomited that all out at you.”

We stand there hugging for a few more seconds, then I release her. Needing a minute, I grab both of our coffee mugs from the table and go to the coffee pot. I distract myself by making us each another cup while Mom excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

I’m waiting at the table, eating a second muffin, when she returns.

“Thanks for the coffee refill.”

I nod at her. The things I said to her were the truth, but I hate that I let them out like this, after holding my tongue for more than a decade. The last thing I ever want to do is hurt my mom.

“Ma?” She looks up at me. “I don’t want you to be sorry. You were grieving. I didn’t mean to hurt you with my words. It’s just… the thought of seeing you in that much pain again is too much to bear.”

She smiles at me, cloaked in sadness.

“That night, two years after your dad died, when you found me in the bathroom, I wasn’t so distraught for the exact reasons you think. Of course, I missed your dad terribly—I still do—but that isn’t what set me off.”

I raise an eyebrow at her, confused.

“I went out with my sister and a few of our friends from college. Everyone’s aware your aunt is ‘happily divorced,’ as she likes to say.

Our other two friends were single, as well.

Long story short, some gentlemen bought us drinks, and eventually we merged tables.

My sister and our friends were completely into it.

We were there for a few hours while they all danced, drank, and had a great time.

It was only me and one of the men with them who weren’t acting like lovesick teenagers.

He and I ended up talking, and he was lovely.

It was two hours of pleasant conversation.

He was attractive, charming, smart… In theory, he should have been the perfect guy for a first date after losing your dad.

But when he asked me at the end of the night if we could meet for coffee sometime, I froze.

I felt physically ill, nauseous… my heart was racing.

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to talk to him some more, get to know him better.

But that was my brain. It was like my body and my heart revolted against the thought of even going out for coffee with someone else. ”

“Ma, you don’t have to tell me all this if you don’t want to.” I reach across the table and grasp her hand.

“I want to.” She pauses to take a sip of her coffee. “Yes, I missed your dad immensely. But my grief, my pain that night, was because I truly believed that I was never going to be able to experience love again. That kind of love, anyway. That thought, that belief, was more than I could bear.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Don’t be sorry, baby. I will love your dad until the day I die. I’ll never stop. Back then, I thought my reaction to the man asking me out meant I’d never love anyone else. But I’m aware now that doesn’t have to be true.”

I stare at her for some time before speaking. “But what if it happens again? What if you love someone that way again, and you lose them, and go through that pain all over? Is it worth it?”

“Honey, I believe that you only grieve that hard when you love—and have been loved—equally hard. I don’t want to experience that again, but I’ll survive if it happens.”

My alarm on my phone dings, alerting me that I need to leave within ten minutes to relieve Sally in time.

She watched the kids extra today as a favor to me, and I want to be respectful of her time.

I explain that to my mom, and we stand. I clean up the dishes, and she packs me some muffins to go and some cookies she made for my girls.

When she walks me to the door, I hug her, then kiss her on the cheek.

“I love you, Henry.”

“I love you, too, Mom. I’ll do my best to support you. But please, bear with me if I struggle at times.”

My mom is beautiful, and when she looks at one of her kids or grandkids with the smile she wears now—the one that says she loves us more than anything—she’s even more stunning.

“It’s okay. I think when you experience that kind of love for someone, you’ll understand why people want it.”

I scoff. “Don’t count on it. I’m firmly in the camp of avoiding romantic love at all costs. It’s not my thing. If I never let it happen, then I won’t know what I’m missing, and I won’t get my heart broken. I’ll keep cruising along like I am. I’m perfectly happy with things like they are.”

I can tell she wants to say something, but she doesn’t. And I’ve got to go…