The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(111)

Mama looks down at her wrist, then frowns, rubbing the place where a watch used to be. “Have you heard from Rachel? She left for the library earlier and should have been back by now.”

I cannot seem to escape my sister. “Haven’t seen her.”

The library is not a place she ever set foot, but I can see her using it as a cover when she was sneaking off somewhere else in middle or high school. Which would make me college age, maybe late high school?

Mama reaches out, taking my hand. “Would you mind driving up there, looking for Rachel? I just don’t like the people she’s been hanging around with lately. They’re … not the best.”

No, they hadn’t been the best. They helped my sister take the leap from bad to worse, from struggling with addiction to going fully off the rails. Though I think even if Rachel had friends like Winnie and Val, she would have chosen the same path. It seems inevitable.

I think of Rachel’s letter, of the venom and bitterness she still holds all these years, and I’m just sad for her. I don’t think anything Mama or I did could have made a difference, but I wish she could escape her own demons. Throwing away the letter has left me with a sense of closure I didn’t know I needed. Even talking and thinking about Rachel now, I feel somehow more free.

“Is everything with you okay?” Mama asks. “You seem sad. Talk to me. I’ve been so worried about Rach I’ve probably been distracted. I’m sorry.”

Tears roll down my face, despite me squeezing my eyes shut as much as possible. They’re terrible at security, my eyes. Just letting all the tears roll right through like tiny escaping bandits. No concern at all.

“Oh, Lindy Lou.” Mama envelops me in the kind of hug that only loosens up everything inside me. She’s like an expert lock-picker, her kindness just one of the tools in her kit.

“There’s a guy, Mama.”

Might as well let it all hang out. Alllllll my secrets. Even if they don’t fit into the timeline she’s living on.

“Tell me all about him, baby. But first—spare me the tension. Should I hate him or tell you to forgive him?”

I laugh and sob at the same time, clutching to Mama like she’s all I have. Because, at this moment, that’s how it feels.

“He isn’t the one who needs to be forgiven. Maybe a little, but not really. I messed up, Mama. A lot.”

Oh, how I miss being able to talk to her like this! And maybe she doesn’t know what year it is, or where she is, but she is always the one person I can trust with anything, and at this moment, I need her more than she knows.

“Oh, I doubt you messed up that badly.” She waves a hand in the air, and a few birds scatter away from the feeders.

“You’d be surprised. I know how to sink a ship.”

“Nonsense. Tell me about it,” she says. “I’ll give you my honest assessment.”

“I love him.” It feels so, so good to say it out loud. “I really, really love him.”

Her smile is wide and warm. “Well, that’s good to hear. But are you keeping him at arm’s length the way you always do?”

Was I doing that, even back then?

Mama continues. “I know my girl. And as wonderful as you are, you seem determined to make yourself like Fort Knox and keep everyone locked out. Don’t push this man away, Lindy Lou. Not if you love him.”

“I already pushed him away, but not because I don’t want him. I was just … scared. And overwhelmed. Things have been hard lately. I haven’t had a lot to give, and I feel like I’ve taken too much from him without giving enough back.”

“I know your father and I didn’t have the best relationship.”

Understatement of the decade.

“But before he left, he was different. We had a good thing for a time.”

This is all news to me. Mama almost never talked about my father, and we kind of drew our own conclusions. I mean, a man who leaves his wife and two daughters without writing or calling, barely paying child support—it’s kind of a no-brainer to assume the man is a loser. I’m having a difficult time wrapping my brain around the idea of him and Mama having anything good, ever.

“With a relationship, you aren’t always on the same page,” she continues. “The important thing is to make sure in the grand scheme of things, the give-and-take is mutual. If you had a hard time and he was there for you, that’s a sign of love. Now, you just need to give that love right back.”

She makes it sound so simple. Could it be that simple?

“Have you told this young man you love him?” she asks. I shake my head, and she brightens. “Well, then, start there.”

“That’s just it, though. Telling him I love him doesn’t seem like enough. He loves big things, drama. After all that he’s done for me, I want to make some kind of grand gesture. I need to show him I love him, not just tell him.”

“I don’t need a grand gesture.”

My head snaps to the door, not believing what—or, rather, who—I see. Pat stands there, holding a big bouquet of flowers. He looks rumpled and sleepless and like he needs a good shave. Though day-old stubble is a great look on him.

“What?” I whisper.

“I don’t need a grand gesture,” he repeats, shaking his head for emphasis. “I just need you.”