The Fastest Way to Fall(95)

Ben shoved his phone into his pocket, head tipping up. That was the moment I could have met his eye and waved. I remembered Wes saying, Anyone who makes you feel you’re not good enough isn’t worth the breath it takes to tell them to go to hell. We could have had a friendly chat, or I could have told him off for ghosting me, but I filled my lungs with air, and neither option struck me as all that appealing.

The song switched to “Truth Hurts” by Lizzo. I smiled, returning to my run with the steady beat in my ears. In my periphery, Ben raised his hand and smiled, but I kept running. I had a race to train for, and I suddenly knew exactly what I wanted to write.





58





MOM GREETED ME with a hug, and I wanted to sink into her like when I was a little kid. I’d spent a lot of time wondering how I’d look her in the eyes, what it would mean if she kept using. I still didn’t know when I walked in the room, but standing there in her hug, I pushed my worries aside. I’d spent so much of the last six years running from guilt and pain, and trying to keep everyone safe, that it was almost a relief to just be there with her. When she pulled away, I breathed a little easier.

She was in rehab, which she’d agreed to at the hospital. I wanted to believe she’d stay clean this time. It sounded like she wanted to believe it, too.

“Chris.” She said my name a few times while looking me over. “Sometimes I just can’t believe you’re a grown man.” She glanced over my shoulder. “Where is your friend? Um, I can’t remember her name. The one with the big tits.”

I shook my head, a smile tipping my lips. It was reassuring in tandem with cringeworthy to hear my mom say “tits.” “Her name’s Britta.”

“Oh yeah.” Mom seemed so fragile sitting right next to me. “She’s your girlfriend?”

“Not anymore.” We’d never gotten around to labels, assuming we had more than forty-eight hours, but “girlfriend” and “dating” were so insufficient for what I felt for her. Soul mate. Love. Ex.

Mom grabbed my hand—such a small gesture, but I couldn’t remember her doing anything that sentimental in years. “What happened to her?”

I shrugged. “Nothing, we just broke up.”

She nodded and continued rubbing her palm over my knuckles. Her hands were tiny, thin fingers twining together. After a few beats, she looked up and met my eyes. “You should stop feeling guilty about what happened.”

“Nothing happened to Britta, Mom. We’re just not together.”

“No. With Libby.”

I stilled.

“It’s not your fault, Chris.”

I patted her hand, shifting to stand. “I know.”

“No.” She moved both hands over mine, holding me in place, her eyes widening in what looked like panic and her voice hardening. “No,” she repeated, her voice returning to normal. “Don’t walk away. You think it’s your fault. I know you do, and I blamed you for being at school. I know I did.” She chewed on her lower lip. “I . . . I’ve messed up a lot, and I know you took care of her the best you could, better than I did.”

“Mom, we don’t have to talk about—”

She held up her palm. “They make us talk here all the damn time, but there are things I want to say to you.” She lowered her hand to mine again. “You couldn’t help her. She grew up hard, same as you, but she wasn’t ever tough like you. Libby ran away for a lot of reasons, and a lot of them were me, but none of them were you.” Mom gripped my hand, clinging to me. “It wasn’t your fault, baby.”

I let her keep holding me in place, and my voice came out almost a whisper. “I could have done something.”

“You couldn’t.”

“I should have tried harder to find her.”

“You tried. I know you did. I know you still try.” She swiped at her face, pushing tears away. “It’s not your fault. I should have told you all this a long time ago, but I’m telling you now.”

I bit the inside of my cheek and ran my free hand through my hair. “I do still try to find her, to save her.”

“Maybe she doesn’t need saving.” Mom looked at her lap, then at our joined hands. “My responsible boy. Always taking care of things. Don’t let it eat you up until there’s nothing left. They make us talk about shit in here, so I don’t have a choice, but maybe you should talk to someone out there.” She squeezed my hand again and stood, eyeing the clock and knowing the time for visits was short. “I grabbed this for you. They had some lying around.” She thrust a flier with AL-ANON printed across the top. “It’s like AA, but for kids and families and stuff.” She glanced away, uncertain or maybe embarrassed at handing it to me. “I don’t know. Maybe it would help. I think you’ve got a lot in your head.”

I tucked it in my pocket. “I’ll check it out, Mom.” I stood to leave, giving her a hug.

Her grip was weaker, and she kissed my cheek. “And bring that girl to visit again. I liked her.”



* * *





AS I WALKED to the car, I chewed on what she’d said and opened the thread to Libby.


Wes: Mom is in rehab. She’s actually doing okay with it.