I fucked up, and I don’t know how to make things right. For the first time in a long time, I don’t know what to do.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I think back on every moment I could have changed what was bound to happen. Every time she cried softly and I held her, but I didn’t ask why she was so upset. Holding her seemed to be enough and I didn’t trust my words. I thought holding her would be enough.
It’s my fault she doesn’t love me enough to stay. That’s what it comes down to. I don’t know how to make her love me any more than she does.
She does love me. But it’s not enough.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and keeps going.
Someone’s calling, probably Cody, if someone’s told him Sophie’s back. Or Brett or Ryan, if they heard about tonight. As much as I’m grateful they give a damn, they can all fuck off.
They told me to wait for her before, and it didn’t fucking work.
Without looking at the ID, I answer it to say, “I’m not going out; I don’t give a shit if you tell me I’m being a bitch or not. It’s not happening.”
There’s hesitation on the end of the line until I hear my mother’s voice coolly reply, “I would never call youa bitch, for starters.”
Fuck, I think and my eyes roll back into my head with irritation. As if my night couldn’t get any worse.
“Mother,” I talk over her. “I wasn’t expecting you. It’s late.”
“I wanted to see if you’d gotten the message about the dinner?” she asks me, her voice returning to the normal proper state. The kind of proper that requires a stick up your ass.
“I received your message, yes.” I don’t bother telling her I’m not going. She should already know that. Considering she didn’t bring it up at lunch, I’m sure she’s well aware I have no intention of attending.
My mother starts to speak and then stops herself. I can hear that she’s still there, although it’s silent for a moment. “I heard that something happened at The Cherie tonight, and so I was also calling because I wanted to make sure you were alright.”
Whoever spoke a word to her is going to be fired. There’s no fucking way any of my friends would go to my mother. Maybe it was the waiter, or maybe the fucking chef. I don’t know who, but I’m going to find out and make their life a living hell. I pay good fucking money for privacy.
“Tell me something, please.” My mother’s voice actually carries a maternal note to it when she adds, “I’m your mother.”
She wants to know? As if she couldn’t put two and two together.
“I fell in love with a girl a long time ago and I couldn’t show her.” I harden my voice to add, “I don’t know how. I never learned.”
I can hear her swallow. “Well how is it that you’re treating her? I may have some ideas of what you could do,” she offers and it’s nearly comical. She adds in a self-deprecating tone, “I’ve been married three times, you know. I could tell you why I said yes each time.”
Her sad laugh is weak on the other end of the line, and I feel for her. I mourn for my mother, both what she went through and for the woman she decided to be.
“I know I’ve made many mistakes, Madox, but if I can just listen, I would be grateful right now.”
I don’t answer her. Instead, I remember the one time I saw her cry in my life because I think I can hear her crying now. “I’ll be quiet and just listen.” Her voice cracks and she sniffles before adding, “You can pretend I’m not even here.”
“I don’t want to upset you,” I tell her in a single breath, feeling like a prick and hating myself even more. A deep-rooted painful side of me wants to add, I didn’t think it was possible, but I don’t. I won’t hurt her when she’s already suffering.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, and she tries to hide the pain when she says in croaked words, “Just tell me what happened.”
A moment passes before I pretend I’m not talking to her. I’m just trying to piece together the frayed edges of what I had with Sophie.
“I liked being the one who could take her pain away and I thought it was enough to show her I loved her.” The ceiling fan continues to spin as I stare up at it and I continue to talk. “But she doesn’t want me to be that for her anymore. And I don’t know what I can be to her, if she doesn’t want to …” Fuck, it hurts. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I try to push it down.
I won’t let her walk away. I’ll keep her.
I will.
There is no other possibility.
“Have you tried telling her that you hurt? Maybe she would feel better leaning on you, if you leaned some on her.” My mother’s words are met with silence.