a lot left over, but art and music are good for the soul. And so she always supported my dreams of becoming a musician, even as she worried about sending her daughter off into an industry known to treat women as commodities instead of people.
Once the tea is ready, she brings my mug to me—an earth-toned ceramic mug that would be right at home at one of the art shows she frequents during festival season—and sets a colorful cloth napkin next to it, placing a jar of local honey between us. She waits for me to add honey to my tea and take a sip before broaching the question I know she’s been holding back from asking. “What happened?”
Sighing, I sip my tea again, gathering my courage to tell her the whole sordid story. And I mean the whole story, including the real start of my relationship with Colt, and bringing her up to what might just be the end of it. Because he still hasn’t returned my calls, and neither of my sisters-in-law will either. Gabby hasn’t responded since giving me his parents’ address, despite me asking if she’d heard anything about where he is.
Mom listens in silence for the most part, only broken by the occasional gasp, especially at the beginning when I told her the truth for the first time. But true to form, despite her obvious shock and dismay, she doesn’t come back with any words of judgment or condemnation.
“It sounds like you really care about him,” she says when I finally finish.
I nod, miserable. “I do. I really, really do.” Another fat tear slips down my cheek. I can’t even help it anymore, and now that I’m here, I’ve stopped trying.
Why didn’t I come see my mom sooner? Why did I keep the truth from her for so long? Somehow her lack of judgment just makes me feel worse about lying to her.
“What are you going to do?” she asks, watching me over the rim of her mug as she sips her tea.
I sigh, slumping in my chair, more tears falling. I’m not bothering to try to stop them now. What’s the point, anyway? Holding it in won’t make me feel better.
Crossing my arms, I stare at the honey jar and shake my head slowly. “I dunno, Mom,” I whisper. “I’m not sure what I can do at this point. He won’t return my calls or my texts. I don’t even know where he is.”
Mom stands and comes around behind me, bending down to wrap her arms around me again. “Stay here for now. I’ll make up the guest bedroom. I have an extra toothbrush in the linen closet, and you can borrow some of my clothes. Take all the time you need to figure it out, okay?”
I lay my head on her arm and pat her wrist, her display of affection causing a new cascade of tears to fall. “Thanks, Mom,” I manage around the giant lump in my throat. “That sounds good.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Colt
“Hi, you’ve reached Alexis. Please leave your me—“
I smash my thumb on the screen, hitting the end call button, wishing it were still the days where everyone used corded phones so I could slam down the handset.
I guess turnabout’s fair play, though, right? I spent the last two days with my phone off, so I wouldn’t see Alexis’s calls and texts—though, to be fair, she didn’t call or text yesterday. It was all the day before.
That Day™.
That’s how I think about it now—the day when everything fell apart. The day I signed my divorce papers. Just thinking about it makes me want to puke.
The day I packed up and left without a word, turning off my phone. The day I drank myself into oblivion, only to wake up the next day with a splitting headache and a belly full of regret. About everything that had led me to this point.
But we have a show in three days. And I need to know how she wants me to handle things. So I need to talk to her.
And now she’s not answering her phone.
I’ve called at least five times, and each time I get her voicemail. Her phone’s not off. And it’s ringing long enough that she’s not actively declining my calls.
Does that mean she doesn’t have her phone, wherever she is?
Or is she unable to get to her phone?
A thousand thoughts of her in danger flash through my head, and the urge to get up and go back to our apartment—her apartment—drives