His Reverie (Reverie #1)(2)
I was ten and wailed like a wounded beast when Mom broke the news to me. She explained, gentle and firm, that I was the man in the family now. Not only the man of the house, which she declared me to be after Dad left, but the man of the entire family. Our family of two.
This meant I not only took care of me, but I needed to take care of her. Talk about pressure. So we’ve never left, never had an inclination to. She has a decent job. And she had to stick around when I got tossed into jail. Oh, she wanted to make bail for me but we had nothing. No collateral.
“You’ll find out where I’m taking you soon enough,” she says with that smug smile she wears when she’s got something good up her sleeve. I lean back in my chair and breathe deep, taking in the perfume, the slightly musty smell that lingers because of the ocean, the faint scent of cigarettes. She quit smoking a couple of years ago after I harassed her one too many times. I already lost one parent. Really couldn’t afford to let that happen again.
She takes me to my favorite breakfast place and I utter a mock “thank the lord Jesus” under my breath as she parks the car. I order the biggest meal they’ve got on the menu, and when they set the plate in front of me I dive in, not even bothering to act polite. I flat out devour the food like my mouth is a vacuum. Like I’m eating the best meal I’ve ever had in my life.
Which isn’t too far from the truth, considering what I’ve been living on.
“Your hair is long,” Mom says as she watches me, amusement lighting her eyes that are the same color as mine, dark, dark blue.
I flick my head, the hair that falls over my forehead flipping to the side. “Yeah. Didn’t bother much with haircuts in there.”
She hadn’t come to see me much the last couple months I was locked up. She was at her job most of the time and needed the money since I was not there to help. She’s a LVN nurse and works at a senior care center, AKA a rest home. She loves it, tells me she finds it rewarding. To me it’s like she’s always losing someone there. That’s where the old folks go to die. I don’t know how she can stand it. Liking someone, caring for someone, then losing them.
Witnessing her cry over one of her patient’s death, combined with how I lost Dad…I don’t let myself get close to anyone. It’s easier that way. Less chance to get hurt.
I’ve been hurt enough. By my best friend, who I still refuse to talk to and will until the day I die if I can help it. By my ex-girlfriend, who told me she loved me and banged my best friend all in the same day. By the system that failed me.
The only person who’s ever been there for me with unconditional love is sitting across the table, her eyes going wider every time I shovel more food in my mouth.
I can’t help it. I’m f**king starving. Jail food is shit.
“You act like you haven’t ate for days,” she says, wonder in her voice.
Pausing in my shoveling act, I stare at her for a moment before grabbing the glass of ice-cold chocolate milk in front of me. “Feels I like I haven’t,” I say just before I chug half the glass down.
The cold liquid hits my gut and makes me grimace. I ate way too fast and I need to slow down before I puke. Leaning back against the booth seat, I watch Mom as she eats a far more civilized meal, but she doesn’t bother putting the fork in her mouth. Just pushes her food around with her silverware, streaking syrup from her French toast all over the plate.
She’s barely touched it.
“Mom.” She glances up, guilt and worry written all over her face and I know something’s wrong. Alarm races through me, buzzing through my veins and I try to stuff it down. “Why aren’t you eating?”
“I don’t have much of an appetite lately.” She shrugs, her eyes skittering away from mine.
As if she’s guilty of something.
My gaze roams over her, noticing for the first time the gauntness in her cheeks, the pale color of her skin. Her hair is long and curly, dyed blonde to hide all the gray, she told me that long ago. She has it pulled into a ponytail and it looks…
Thin.
She looks thin. Tired.
Too tired.
“You’ve been working too much,” I state, not bothering to ask if that’s the case. I know it’s the truth.
“Not so much lately.” She pushes her plate away and rests her arms on the edge of the table. “I didn’t want to do this now, not with you just being released, but I can’t hide it forever…I need to talk to you, Nicky.”
Fear slithers down my spine like the coldest, deadliest snake. This isn’t good. It can’t be good. “What’s up?” I try for nonchalant. Casual. But I’m just deluding myself.
I can feel the bad news she’s about to deliver, creeping over me like the thick, damp fog that can settle in around here, even in the summer. Especially the summer. What she has to say is going to devastate me. I know it.
“Honey. Nicky. I…” She pauses and the tears form again, welling up in her eyes and I shake my head, push my own plate away with such force it bumps into my glass of chocolate milk and it spills all over my remaining breakfast. Mom’s eyes widen in horror. “Call the waitress,” she urges. “We need to get this cleaned up.”
“Forget it.” I shake my head, not giving a shit if the rest of my bacon is swimming in chocolate. “Tell me what’s wrong.”