Sweet Ache

“We’re exclusive.” I react without thought, my own answer surprising me.

Quin stares at me for a beat, eyes wide, lips parted before shaking her head in disagreement. “No we’re not. Being exclusive means closet doors are open so we can peek at the skeletons inside … and yours? Your doors are locked shut and that’s not okay with me.”

Is she rejecting me? What the fuck am I missing here? Fear that I’m going to lose her when I just realized I want more with her hits me. “What are—”

“You’re pissed I’m talking to Luke … so I can be pissed you haven’t told me about Helen, right?”

Her words take me by surprise. My mind stumbles, panic replacing my anger again—but of a totally different kind than when I knocked on the front door minutes ago. I must look like a deer in the headlights trying to figure out how she knows about my mom because she answers the question for me.

“You and Vince were talking about her in the kitchen the other morning, and I overheard,” she says with a quiet, resigned hurt in her voice.

And things start to click into place for me. Her sudden departure after we had sex. The flustered excuse to work on her thesis that didn’t match the deception in her eyes. Almost like she’d fallen into the lust of the sex with me and once it was over, she realized that it was all too much … but in reality she was thinking I was cheating on her or double-dipping or what-the-fuck-ever with the person we were talking about in the kitchen.

I’ve held my mom’s privacy so close for so long that my chest constricts when I think of letting an outsider in. And even though that person is Quin, trusting someone to know about my mom, the one person I love more than anything, my one and only weakness, paralyzes me.

I hang my head down and squeeze my eyes shut from the hurricane of emotion that is whipping inside me. “Helen’s not who you think she is, Quin.” The words are so quiet I’m not sure if she even hears me but when I lift my head to meet her eyes, I know she has. “Come with me somewhere?” The offer is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

We drive in an awkward silence toward Westbrook. Quin must have sensed my distress when I asked her to come with me because she stared at me for a beat before grabbing her purse and climbing in the car beside me.

I glance over at her, eyes shadowed behind her sunglasses and hands folded in her lap, and wonder what she’s thinking. Does she have any clue what my insides feel like right now? Like they’re being churned and twisted and filled with acid. She can’t possibly because I haven’t said a word and yet she still sits there in silent reassurance, allowing me the space I need to work through my inner turmoil.

“I knocked Hunter out.” I’m not sure why I choose right now to confess this to her other than to break the silence.

“Well, he probably deserved it,” she says matter-of-factly and asks nothing more. No how could you punch your brother? No you don’t do that to your family. Nothing.

And yet I feel like I need to explain, purge the wrongdoing from my soul, because I continue, “I lied about some shit, took the fall for him, and he made a smart-ass remark about how I’d do it again.”

“Vince told me about the drugs.” It’s all she says and it’s so soft that all I can do is nod my head in affirmation. “Everyone has a breaking point, Hawkin. One person can take on only so much responsibility without buckling from its weight,” she murmurs without any judgment of the lies I’ve told.

I keep my eyes fixed on the freeway in front of me as I let the comment resonate, knowing its truth despite the constant tumult that burdens me. A part of me sags in relief at her observation, knowing that someone else sees the cracks in my resolve, while the other part of me begins to question again.

And the scary thing about questions are they usually result in a revolution of some sort. I’m just not sure if I can withstand an overhaul of principles without it resulting in casualties.

“Am I the reason he’s like this, Q? How did this person I’ve been with since conception … how can we experience the same tragedy but be so completely different? Did I try too hard, protect him too much, throw him to the wolves when I shouldn’t have and end up proving I’m just like Dad?” I speak the questions floating around in my mind aloud, throw them out there even though I know there’s no way in hell she has the answers.

She does nothing more than reach over and lace her fingers with mine, staying silent, but her unconditional support is deafening. Except even with someone beside you, the quiet has a way of smothering you when you’re left alone with just your thoughts. And of course mine turn to where we are headed right now.

I don’t have a clue why I’m so goddamn anxious all of a sudden when my thoughts veer to my mom. It’s not like I’m a monster. It’s not like anyone knowing she’s sick is going to ruin me. It’s none of the above so why does my dad’s voice still ring in my ears as prevalent as the sound of the gunshot?

It’s bullshit—the fear, the worry, the sense of the inevitable—but it’s the truest thing I’ve ever had in my life. My mom might never remember me again, she might hate me, but she’s still my mom.

She’s my greatest love. And my biggest weakness.

Exposing her illness to the press, who’d splash it across magazine covers and make a spectacle of her because of me would break me when Dad’s death nearly did just that. I wouldn’t be able to protect her anymore from the glory-hound paparazzi, who would feed their greed by taking advantage of the insults her ailing mind hurls at me. How many people would stop and look at the cover of a rag if they proclaimed “murderer,” “useless,” “coward” as a precursor before lead singer?