Second Chance Summer (Chance #1)(52)
Author: Emma Hart

Momma curses under her breath before looking at me and saying, “Jesus, Kia. Slow the hell down.”

I ignore her, changing gear a bit too vigorously.

“I get it. You’re pissed ‘cause you had to come get me.”

“Damn right I am!”

“I told him to just let me sleep it off there, and then I’d be fine for work tonight.”

“And how many times have you done that this week, huh? I haven’t seen you, so I don’t even wanna know. But yeah, Mom. I’m damn pissed right now. I’m not a freakin’ cab service.”

“I know,” she replies in a smaller voice. A hint of weakness leaks through, and I realize this is the first time I’ve seen her sober in ages. This is the first time I’ve seen her drink anything other than vodka, or rum, or gin, or beer for ages.

Tense silence stretches between us as I drive the rest of the way home without responding to her. I have nothing to say to her right now – her knowing what she’s doing isn’t gonna make it magically go away. Knowing that she has to change and actually changing it is the only thing that will make it all go away.

I get out of the car and walk inside before anything else can be said. Its damn crazy how half an hour ago I was completely satisfied, playing the guitar, and now I feel like a ticking time bomb ready to explode with anger. I boil the kettle as Mom comes in after me and trots up the stairs. She has to be back at the bar for her shift in three measly hours, and I have no idea how she plans on accomplishing that.

I make my coffee and take a seat at the kitchen table, hearing the shower start up. And I sigh, because there are so many questions now buzzing in my head. There are so many things I need and want to ask her, but I already know the answer to the biggest one; why the drink?

Because it’s how she escapes from reality. We all need an escape. I play guitar, and she drinks.

I just wish, more than anything, that she could find another escape.

~

A throat clearing in the doorway draws my attention from the grain on the wooden table. My finger stops its tracing, and my eyes go to Momma’s much cleaner person.

“I’m sorry.”

I blink at her. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” she repeats.

“I know what you said. I’m just wondering exactly what you’re apologizin’ for.”

She wanders over to the kettle and boils it. “For you havin’ to come out to Denny’s and get me. I know you hate it there.”

I nod in response, turning my attention back to the table. I run my finger back along the grain, my nail digging into the wood slightly. One of the chairs scrapes along the floor, and Momma sits opposite me.

I glance up. Her damp blonde hair is hanging over one of her slumped shoulders and her hands are wrapped tightly around her mug. For a moment, I feel bad about the way I just spoke to her. For a moment, she reminds me of the woman she used to be.

But the empty bottle in the corner of the kitchen brings me back to now.

I breathe in deeply and tap my fingers against the table. “Why did you do it? To Daddy?”

“I don’t have an answer for you, Kia,” she replies quietly. “I wish I did, but I don’t. I don’t know why I did what I did.”

“Figures,” I mumble.

“But I regret it.” She looks up suddenly, her eyes focused on me. “I wish I never did it. Whether you believe it or not, that’s the truth.”

I want to believe it. I want to believe she wishes she could turn back time and not do whatever it was with whoever it was. I want to believe she wishes she could go back and drive home alone instead of leaving work with someone else.

And the shadow dulling what was once a pair of vividly colored eyes makes me believe her just a little.

“Do you still love him?”

She snorts, but it’s not derogatory or scoffing. It’s sad. “I’m always gonna love your Daddy, girl. He gave me you, and I know I ain’t the best mom in the world, but together, we had it all. Me, you, and him. We had the world, and I threw it all away. Now don’t you sit there thinkin’ I’m tryna guilt trip you, ‘cause I ain’t. Both me and your Daddy handled things wrong, and we wrecked what was already the hardest time of your life. I don’t expect you to sit there and forgive me for what I did. I’m not blind – I see I don’t deserve that forgiveness. I don’t deserve anythin’ from you, Kia, and I don’t expect anythin’, either. I wouldn’t be surprised if when you leave for school this year you decide not to come back at all. I’m surprised you came back this time.”

“Harlan Grove is my home. I might not like it much, but it is. I’ll always have to come back at some point.”

“No, you ain’t. You ain’t gotta come back at all.” She stands, pushing her chair back and reaching round to dump her mug in the sink. “I ain’t been about for you much but I’ve seen you and heard the way people talk about you. When they get past their gossipin’ and their storytellin’, they couldn’t be more in awe of you. “Little Kia James, all grown up at college in New York,” they say. The girl with the broken family and the dead-end Daddy, the girl who was never supposed to amount to anythin’ has turned around and told them all where the f**k they can stick their nosin’.

“So if you don’t wanna come back here, you don’t. You go and live wherever the hell you wanna live, girl, because you’re more than this dead-end little town. I didn’t leave when I got the chance, and look at me. Don’t make the same mistake I did and stay for love. Love does nothin’ but hurt you.”

She walks away, leaving me staring at her back. That’s the longest conversation we’ve had since I got home that wasn’t arguing. It’s the most honest conversation we’ve had since the day Daddy left… But honest doesn’t always mean true.

“You’re wrong about love,” I whisper, closing my eyes and holding in tears. “I know you’re wrong.”

Staying somewhere for love isn’t the mistake. What you choose to do after you have that love is, because doesn’t always have to hurt.

Sometimes love is the very thing that heals the hurt.

CHAPTER 17

“It’s ready, and I’m ready for you to get your ass back to New York,” Jay says before I can greet him.

“My room is ready?” I tilt my head to the side and trap my cell between my shoulder and my ear as I sort through my endless piles of clothes.