Bend (50 page)

“What are you doing out here, pumpkin?” he asks mildly, and I can’t help grimacing at the childish endearment. He doesn’t use it much anymore, but still. If I ever have kids, I’m not calling them pet names anymore when they’re adults. For Pete’s sake.

“Trying to figure out what I want to do with my life,” I answer him truthfully.

His eyebrows shoot up, and then he moves up to take a seat next to me, letting out a slight grunt and sigh as he flops down on the love seat. “I thought you had that figured out already.”

“Yeah,” I say, staring out into the blackness of the yard. “I don’t know anymore. I feel like I want to do something else. Something that’s more important?”

He seems to let that sink in for a moment before he points out, “All types of health care are important, Mia.”

“I know. I just…I don’t know.” It’s hard to explain to him, so I leave it at that with a glance at his profile, which in the muted light looks pale and drawn.

He’s tired. It’d be weird if he wasn’t. Since the weekend Grandma dropped her bombshell, he’s only been working half as much as usual, but the rest of the time, he was taking care of her. And as she slowly declined, so did he.

As gutted and bereaved as I feel at the loss of her, I still can’t imagine what he’s going through. He’s been such a mama’s boy all his life, and now she’s just…gone.

I slide my hand under his elbow and link my arm with his, leaning in and resting my head on him. He pulls his arm out of my grasp and drapes it around me, squeezing my shoulder.

“I thought it might be easier after having time to say good-bye,” I blurt out as my mind abruptly switches topics, knowing I don’t have to explain to him what I’m talking about. “Like that’d give us a head start on the grief.”

“Yeah,” Dad responds, his voice heavy. “It doesn’t really work that way.”

I suppose he would know, having gone through the same with his dad, which was a long time ago, and my memories of my grandfather are vague and remote.

A sigh wrenches itself from my chest, and I close my eyes. “I know she’s gone, but I don’t really get it. It feels like she’s still around, just not here. Like she’s on vacation or something.”

My dad says nothing, only pulls me tighter against himself.

“I’m glad it went so quickly,” I whisper against the fabric of his shirt, remembering saying good-bye to my bedridden but still fairly chipper and alert grandmother last weekend—and then getting the call from my mom in the early morning only two days later.

Dad lets out a grunt. “‘It’s better to burn out than to fade away.’”

Making a face, I pull back to look up at him. “Seriously? You’re quoting Kurt Cobain?”

“Those are Neil Young lyrics, you little philistine,” he points out, his strong, angular features twisting with pretend reproach.

Pressing my lips together, I roll my eyes. “I’m going to bed.”

I push myself up from the love seat, and I sense him doing the same, hear the scraping of his flip-flops as he pads along behind me down the steps and across the yard toward the patio door.

We find my mom, sister, and brother at the kitchen table, talking in low tones. They all turn their heads toward us when we come inside, and my mom looks past me, arching her brows at my dad. Which is kind of weird.

With a mental shrug, I tell them, “I’m off to bed. Good night.”

“Good night,” says Paige, and Cameron chimes in with, “Night.”

My mom, however, hardens her stare at her husband, clearing her throat.

“Hang on, Mia,” Dad cuts in, sounding hesitant and reluctant and a bit pained. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I need to tell you something.”

“He needs to
apologize,
” Mom corrects with a sour look in his direction.

“He does?” Paige asks brightly. “Sounds great.”

“Yeah, where’s the popcorn?” Cam chimes in.

I glare at them where they sit at the kitchen table with eager anticipation in their eyes. Okay, so Dad’s not much for apologies, but honestly. Why do people even have kids? All they do is give you shit.

I should know.

“Mia probably doesn’t want an audience,” my dad’s voice rumbles.

“I don’t mind,” I say, eyeing him sideways while I cross my arms. Because no one trumps me when it comes to giving your parents shit.

“Fine.” Dad’s eyes flash with annoyance, and he leans back against the sink, bracing himself on the edge of the counter. Meeting my gaze directly, he grinds out, “When Jay was here for your grandmother’s birthday, I said some things to him that I shouldn’t have.”

Um. Huh? Blinking at him, I ask, “Like what?”

He looks across the room at my mom, his expression almost pleading, like he’s saying,
Do I have to?

Seriously. He’s like a little kid sometimes.

“Well,” he continues flatly when Mom only watches him, “I told him your mom and I had found out about his dad. And also about Jay’s”—here he pauses, stumbles, visibly searches for the right words—“troubles when he was a teenager.”

“Yeah,” I say, my lips flattening. “I know. He told me about that.”

“Told you what about his dad?” Paige cuts in, her tone sharp with curiosity.

Ignoring her, Dad opens his mouth, and the next words shoot out like rapid-fire bullets. “I told him he wasn’t right for you.”

A jolt zaps through me, and I jerk my head back. “What?”

“Seriously,” Paige is saying, but more quietly, like she’s addressing Mom this time, “what about his dad?”

“You told him
what?
” I burst out, my head about to explode.

Dad winces and bends his neck slightly, rubbing his forehead. “I’m sorry, pumpkin. It was wrong, totally out of line, and…well, not true.”

“No fucking shit!”

I’m yelling now. I don’t like yelling. My hands are shaking, my vision blurred. He told Jay what? Why? Why the fuck—

“Mia!” Mom snaps, chiding, but I can barely hear her, too focused on Dad and how much I want to hurt him right now.

“Is that why he broke up with you?” Cam asks when no one says anything for a while, apparently deciding it’s safe for him to speak.

I whip my head around and throw him a wild scowl, willing him to, for once in his life, know when it’s time to shut the hell up.

He doesn’t.

“Oh, wait, I’m sorry.” My brother’s face twists with faux contrition. “Is that why he decided not to be just friends-who-are-not-a-couple even though everyone else with eyes and a brain can see that you’re lying through your teeth?”

It’s like he punched me and knocked the wind out of me. The little jerk. “He definitely didn’t dump me because Dad told him to,” I answer him coldly.

And then I turn back to my father, pointing a finger at him. “If you think that, you’re seriously overestimating your influence on him.”

But even as I say it, it hits me that I don’t entirely believe that. I try to put myself in Jay’s shoes, try to imagine the level of fear and shame that made him hide it all from me, his best friend, for six years.

How would he feel when someone like my dad told him he wasn’t good enough? That Jay was too stained by his past to be worthy of me? How the hell would that
not
confirm his fears, justify his self-loathing?

Dad clears his throat. “Well, regardless, I’m really sorry.”

I stare at him. His countenance is bleak, his eyes filled with misery. Guess he seems like he means it. Tightly, I say, “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

“Right. And I’ll apologize to Jay,” Dad replies, nodding. Then he adds sharply, “If I ever get to talk to him again.”

A heavy silence falls over the kitchen, and I feel like I’m sinking—just slowly falling down and down and down.

“You should go see him right now.” This from Paige. My loving, nosy, interfering big sister. Who’s sitting there a few feet away, looking at me with encouragement. And next to her is Mom, who’s mostly kept her tongue throughout this whole exchange. Which probably means she’s just waiting for the opportunity to deliver the coup de grace. She loves doing that.

“I don’t know where he is,” I mutter. “He probably flew back home already.”

“Nope,” Paige says, sounding smug and overly cheerful. “He’s staying at the Hampton Inn. Room 314.”

Now we’re all staring at her, but she just widens her eyes at us. “What? I asked him after the funeral, in case we needed to know. And now we do need to know, so…”

I release a sigh-snort through my nose. “You know, I seem to remember you telling me getting involved with Jay was a bad idea.”

“No,” she replies slowly, drawing the word out with measured patience, “I told you that just having sex with Jay and calling yourselves friends with benefits was a bad idea.”

Shit. Thanks a lot, Paige.

Flames of mortification flicker up my neck into my cheeks, and I’m carefully avoiding looking at my parents, focusing instead on my shithead little brother, who’s covering his mouth with his arm and letting out the worst fake cough I’ve ever heard, his eyes dancing.
You walked right into that one,
his teasing gaze says, and I don’t even bother to make a face at him, because he’s right.

“Well…I had too much wine at dinner to drive,” I point out, which I’m satisfied is a pretty good excuse.

“I’ll take you.” Paige’s tone is firm, like she expects that to settle the issue.

Squeezing my eyes closed, I blow out a sigh. “You’re all really annoying, you know that?”

“Do you love him, monkey?” Mom finally pipes up.

My heart jumps into my throat and starts pounding, pounding so hard I can feel it throbbing in my ears. Yup. There it is: the contribution from my mother that I was waiting for. And it’s such a simple question and so effective.

“Yeah,” I say without hesitation, and it comes out as a weak whisper, a choked confession.

“Have you told him?” she asks, her eyes big and challenging. My sensitive and wise mom. Being so perceptive and mom-like.

Because the answer to that is no. Of course. I haven’t told Jay I love him. At first because I was too busy trying to reap all the rewards of having him in my life, of keeping him close without taking any risks. And then later because I was too busy being offended that he didn’t think he could trust me with his secrets, as if he should’ve wanted to share that stuff with me, because I would’ve done it a long time ago. But he’s not me, and I’m not him.

It’s definitely time to stop being an idiot about this.

With another sigh, I tell my sister, “Go get your car keys then.”

R
oom 314.

I stand in front of the door with its dark wood, keycard lock, and the sign next to it with the room number in digits and in Braille. Fidgeting with the zipper on my purse and shifting my weight from one leg to the other, I’m trying to muster the courage to knock, but those commands from my brain aren’t reaching my muscles for some reason.

It took Paige about twenty minutes to drive me here. We talked about the funeral and about the girls, and then I asked her how she and Logan are doing. Because I knew that would bug her and she deserved payback for the way she’s been getting up in my business.

But I mostly asked because I’m worried about her. It makes no sense to me that she’s here by herself. Sure, I get that she didn’t want to bring Freya and Abigail to the funeral, but couldn’t they all have come and Logan just watched the kids during the service? Or at the very least, couldn’t her father-in-law have looked after the girls for one day so that Logan could’ve made the trip up here to attend the funeral of his pregnant wife’s grandmother?