Made You Up(60)

And . . . oh, shit.

I swayed on the spot. This was about more than Scarlet or McCoy. He wanted me to meet his mom. I’d just agreed to meet his mom.

He perked up, but still looked apprehensive, like if he said, “Really?” I was going to say, “No.”

“I’ll have to ask first,” I said, “but I should be able to. When are you going?”

“Saturday. I leave pretty early in the morning, so . . .”

“Don’t worry about it; I’m an early bird.” I saw my mother rounding the corner, heading for the lobster tank and Charlie. “There she is now, I can ask her.”

“No, that’s—you don’t have to—” But I’d already waved her over.

“Miles invited me to go with him to visit his mom,” I said.

My mother examined Miles, obviously remembering when he’d brought me home during my episode, and Miles glanced from my mom to me, giving me a panic-stricken look I’d never seen on his face before.

“You’re going to visit her?” my mother said with definite interest, but with that edge that suggested she thought Miles meant “visit her in jail.”

“Uh, yeah.” He swallowed thickly. “I go once a month—and it’s nothing serious, really—but, uh, she’s in a hospital in Goshen.”

“A hospital?”

Miles looked at me again. “A psychiatric hospital.”

My mother was completely silent for at least a whole minute. When she spoke again, her voice was careful, but almost . . . happy.

“Well, I think that sounds like a good idea,” she said. Miles looked relieved, but my stomach sank to the depths of the ocean. Why was my own mother so okay with me visiting a mental hospital? Why was that a good idea at all?

It kind of felt like she was kicking me in the gut, and every kick said

I don’t want you.

I don’t need you.

I don’t love you.





Chapter Thirty




Saturday morning, Miles stood on the doorstep in his bomber jacket with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. His breath fogged the pane of glass in the front door.

He looked me up and down. Pajamas and cat slippers. “Why aren’t you ready to go?”

“My mom says I need to invite you in for breakfast.”

Miles glanced over me, toward the kitchen. “I didn’t realize you were eating. I can wait in the truck. . . .”

“No, no, it’s okay.” I grabbed his sleeve and pulled him inside. “Seriously, this’ll all go over easier if you come and eat.”

Miles looked toward the kitchen again. I knew he could smell the food—my mother had been wafting scents toward the front door since she’d started cooking this morning.

“Your dad is home?” Miles asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

A line formed between his eyebrows.

“He’s mostly harmless. But you have to remember your history.” I lowered my voice to add, “Not everyone’s dad is a complete *.”

That seemed to convince him. He shrugged his jacket off. When I took it from him, it nearly pulled me to the floor.

“Christ almighty!” I heaved the unexpected weight back up. “Why is it so heavy?”

“It’s a heavyweight flight jacket,” said Miles. “I have another one that’s lighter, but it makes me look like a greaser—what are you doing?”

“Smelling it.” I stuck my nose in the collar. “It always smells like tobacco.”

“Yeah, it would. Opa smoked a lot.”

“Opa?”

“Sorry, my grandpa.”

I hung the jacket on the coat hook next to the door and pushed Miles into the kitchen.

“Oh, you’re here!” said my mother with fake surprise. “I’ve already set you a place at the table, right there next to Alex.”

Miles’s eyes glazed as they roamed over the scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon, toast, and orange juice on the table. I pushed him into a chair.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Miles.” Dad reached over to shake Miles’s hand. Miles stared at him like he’d lost the will to speak. “Staying for breakfast before you head out?”

“I guess,” said Miles.

“Great! How much do you know about the French Revolution?”