Mended (Connections, #3)(72)

With my mother’s sobs weighing me down and Ivy sounding so emotional, I can’t stand to stay hidden listening any longer. I swing around the corner, almost manic. My mother turns toward me and I meet her gaze. Her face is full of concern and love, whereas I know mine must be a picture of confusion. She rushes over to me as I stand in a daze.

“Xander!” She pulls me in for a tight embrace. Then she pulls away and clutches my face in her trembling hands. “Xander.” She begins weeping again.

I shift on my feet, not sure what to ask. Not sure I want to know anything. I take a step back and nearly collide with the doorframe. The moment is awkward, and for the first time in my life I don’t know what to say to my mother.

Ivy clears her throat. “I’m going to leave you two alone. Thanks for talking to me, Charlotte.” I meet her gaze and her sad eyes, but I can’t talk to her now. I wish I could think of a way to let her know I know what she did and why she did it—I hope she understands I’m telling her I get it.

“Ivy, don’t go yet,” my mother manages, but I see Ivy turn and leave the room, then hear the click of the door. My mother is in such a state that her tears won’t stop. She’s sobbing so hard that her breathing is out of control.

“Take it easy, Mom,” I whisper.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come. That you’d never talk to me again. I was so scared I wouldn’t be able to explain everything to you.”

I take her hand and lead her to the sofa. “Sit down, Mom. I’m going to get you a glass of water. I’ll be right back.” She tries to stop me, but she’s so hysterical I can’t even understand what she’s saying. I hate seeing her like this—because of me. I pour some water in a glass and gulp it down, then fill another and take it to her. She drinks it, and once she sets the glass down, she takes my hands.

She looks at me helplessly. “I want you to hear the truth from me. I should have been the one to tell you, and I’m sorry I wasn’t.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and then open them to look at her. “I’m ready.”

With a deep sigh, my mother starts to explain. “I never told any of you that your father and I spent some time apart before we were married. That was a dark time for me. I was lost and alone. I had dated your father all through high school, and then we broke up shortly after he left to go on tour. I missed him terribly. Dylan and Damon went to UCLA with me. We were friends, but I had allowed Damon to fill my head with stories of what it must be like on the road. I loved Nick so much, but jealousy tore us apart. After we broke up I spent a lot of time with Dylan and Damon. I started to date Dylan, but it didn’t last long. Once we broke up—well, Damon—he was there for me. He made me think he was taking care of me—that my well-being was what mattered to him. He made himself trustworthy, he was a friend, a confidant even. And then one day he turned on me. Even now his name is a painful reminder. I never say it. Never talk about him or his brother. I let it go—I had to. But I’ll never forget . . .”

“Mom, you don’t have to go on. It’s okay.” My voice fades, but I know she hears it. She seems to forget I’m there, even though her story continues.

“I woke up the morning of Dylan’s death with a feeling of terrible anticipation—something had startled me out of what I thought was a horrifying dream. I sat up and realized I wasn’t in my own bed. My stomach was in knots from one too many drinks the night before. I groggily scanned the area for clues, trying to remember why I was in Damon’s room.” Her voice goes hoarse and I hand her the glass of water again.

“Damon rushed into the room—opening the door and closing it behind him just as quickly. He spoke haltingly as he opened the blinds and let the light flood the room. His tone was unusually grim and his haste caught me off guard. He told me he took care of everything. I didn’t know what he meant. I was scared. Shivering, I pulled the covers up closer to me and asked him what he was talking about. But even as the words left my mouth, hazy memories of what had happened came rushing back to me. I looked out the huge window at the daylight and tried to piece together where the previous night had led.” She stops again and I’m feeling poisoned by my own thoughts. Sitting up straighter, I try to calm my breathing so I can speak, but she starts again before I can say anything.

“After a few moments I cleared my dry throat and told him I had been out with my girlfriends and I’d had a little too much to drink. I’d called Dylan from the bar to see how he was doing. We had run into each other earlier that day and he looked terrible, so I wanted to check on him. He had asked me to come over and I couldn’t say no. When I got there he cried for me to take him back and when I refused he was so upset. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t listen so I thought it best that I leave. I told Damon that when I tried, Dylan begged me to stay, so I did.”

I feel sick—my head is pounding and I’m not sure I want to hear any more, but my mother seems intent on telling me the whole story.

Swallowing, she goes on, but the words stick in her throat. “He was a mess and he needed someone. Please don’t judge me, Xander.”

“I’m not, Mom, I’m not. I promise,” I assure her. Because I am certainly in no place to judge.

“I started to feel sick when I was telling Damon what had happened—I felt so incredibly hungover, so I slowly edged toward the bathroom, but I stopped at the dresser to look in the mirror. My hair was a mess, my eyes deeply shadowed, and my face pale, but what concerned me most was Damon’s reflection staring back at me—the crease in his brow and the anger in his eyes scared me.”