I hear him talking to his mother briefly before the front door opens and closes. I plop back onto the pillows and kick my feet in a childish manner. But hearing the siren song of caffeine, I finally climb out of bed and pad out into the kitchen to make some coffee.
“Good morning, sweetie,” Trish chirps as I pass where she sits at the counter.
“Good morning. Thank you for making coffee,” I say and grab the freshly brewed pot.
“Hardin said he had some work to do,” she says, though it really sounds like she’s asking, not telling.
“Yeah . . . he said something about that,” I reply, unsure what else to say.
But she seems to ignore that and says, “I’m glad he’s okay after last night,” her voice full of worry.
“Yeah, me, too.” Then, without thinking, I add, “I shouldn’t have made him sleep on the floor.”
Her brows knit together in question. “He doesn’t have the nightmares when he isn’t on the floor?” she asks carefully.
“No, he doesn’t have them if we . . .” I trail off, stirring the sugar into my coffee and trying to think of a way to talk myself out of this.
“If you’re there,” she finishes for me.
“Yeah . . . if I’m there.”
She gives me a hopeful look that—so I’m told—only a mother can give when talking about her children. “Do you want to know why he has them? I know he’ll hate me for telling you, but I think you should know.”
“Oh, please, Mrs. Daniels.” I swallow. I don’t really want to hear her tell me that story. “He told me . . . about that night.” I swallow when her eyes widen in surprise.
“He told you?” she gasps.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to just say it that way. And the other night, I thought you knew . . .” I apologize and take another drink of coffee.
“No . . . no . . . Don’t apologize. I just can’t believe he told you. Obviously you knew about the nightmares, but this . . . this is astounding.” She dabs her eyes with her fingers and smiles a smile straight from the heart.
“I hope it’s okay. I’m so sorry for what happened.” I don’t want to intrude on their family secrets, but I also have never had to deal with anything like this before.
“It’s more than okay, Tessa dear,” she says and begins full-on sobbing. “I’m just so happy he has you . . . They were so bad—he would scream and scream. I tried to send him to therapy, but you know Hardin. He wouldn’t speak to them. At all. As in not one word, he would just sit there and stare at the wall.”
I set my mug down on the counter and wrap my arms around her.
“I don’t know what it was that made you come back yesterday, but I’m glad that you did,” she says into my shoulder.
“What?”
She pulls back and gives me a wry expression and dabs at her eyes. “Oh, honey, I’m old, but not that old. I knew something was going on between the two of you. I saw how surprised he was to see you when we arrived and I could tell something was off when he said you weren’t going to make it to England.”
I had a feeling that she was onto us, but I didn’t know how transparent we were to her. I take a big gulp of my now lukewarm coffee and consider this.
Trish tenderly grabs on to my other arm. “He was so excited . . . well, as excited as Hardin gets . . . to bring you to England, and then a few days ago he said you were going out of town, but I knew better. What happened?” she asks.
I take another drink and make eye contact with her. “Well . . .” I don’t know what to tell her, because Oh nothing, your son just took my virginity as a part of a bet doesn’t exactly feel helpful right now.
“He . . . he lied to me” is all I say. I don’t want her to be upset with Hardin, and I don’t really want to get into all of it with her, but I don’t want to completely lie either.
“A big lie?”
“A massive lie.”
She looks at me then like I’m a landmine. “Is he sorry?”
Talking to Trish about this is strange. I don’t even know her, and she’s his mother, so she’ll feel inclined to take his side no matter what. So I reply delicately, “Yeah . . . I think he is,” and drain the rest of my coffee.
“Has he said that he is?”
“Yeah . . . a few times.”
“Has he shown it?”
“Sort of.” Has he? I know he broke down the other day, and he’s been calmer than usual, but he hasn’t actually said what I want to hear.
The older woman looks at me, and for a moment I really fear what her response is going to be. But then she surprises me by saying, “Well, as his mother, I have to put up with his antics. But you don’t. If he wants you to forgive him, then he needs to work for it. He needs to show you that he’ll never again do anything like whatever it is that he did—and I figure it must have been a pretty big lie if you moved out. Try to keep in mind that emotion is not a place he goes to often. He’s a very angry boy . . . man now.”
I know the question sounds ridiculous—people lie all the time—but the words tumble out before my brain can process them: “Would you forgive someone for lying to you?”
“Well, it would depend on the lie, and how sorry they were. I will say that when you allow yourself to believe too many lies, it’s hard to find your way back to the truth.”
Is she saying I shouldn’t forgive him?
She taps her fingers on the counter lightly. “However, I know my son, and I can see the change in him since the last time I saw him. He’s changed the last few months, so much, Tessa. I can’t even tell you how much. He laughs and smiles. He even engaged in conversation with me yesterday.” Her smile is bright despite the serious subject. “I know that if he lost you he would go back to how he was before, but I don’t want you to feel obligated to be with him because of that.”