Tattooed Troublemaker - Elise Faber Page 0,46

to shove that litany down.

“Have you—”

My lids peeled back, and I turned carefully to face Sam. His expression was careful, but I already suspected what he was going to say. “Have you talked to her?” he asked and yup, there it was.

We’d been friends long enough that I knew the her he was referring to.

Not Charlie, though she would have definitely been my preference. Not Lorna—hell-fucking-no. No, the her he was referring to was my mother.

“I bought my plane ticket to come home,” I said instead of admitting that I hadn’t called my mother, hadn’t seen or talked to her in the year since I’d left. The words of that last day I’d spent in California were too . . .

Raw.

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Sam said quietly.

“I know,” I muttered. “And no, I haven’t, okay? Those last few weeks before I left were intense for everybody—”

“She blames herself for you leaving.”

“What?” My head jerked up.

“Yeah, didn’t think you’d realized that,” Sam said. “She’s . . . well, I think you need to talk to her.” Then he moved across the room and pulled open the fridge door. “Fuck, I’d better tell Lane to add actual food to the order, considering all you have is that”—he pointed to the bottle of vodka and the two beers—“and it’s not enough for a growing boy like me.”

I didn’t tell him that there was also some peanut butter and jelly in the cabinet. Instead, I asked, “Does she really think that?”

Sam’s face went a little hard. “You split town a week after she announced she was getting remarried, Garret. What do you think?”

I hadn’t been thinking.

That was the problem.

I’d been embarrassed and hurt about Lorna, and yes, if I was being honest, I was jealous that my mom was happy and moving on when I’d just had the relationship I’d been fighting for implode. But I’d been dealing with the fallout from Lorna’s transgressions, coping, trying to figure out how to move forward. At least until I’d found out the real reason my dad had left.

Me.

And suddenly it had all seemed so clear.

I should go. I should leave everyone to their happy lives.

Johanna and Sam were trying to have a kid.

Lane was fully engrossed in his job.

My mom had moved on and was in love.

They deserved their happy and didn’t need me stomping on it or bringing in people like Lorna who’d tried to destroy it. So, I’d gone, not suspecting that they would even miss me in the process.

Or maybe . . . I’d wanted them to miss me? Maybe I’d wanted to be the martyr so they would feel bad and be as unhappy as I was?

Fuck. I rubbed my forehead.

I didn’t know.

Everything was twisted up in my mind, and nothing seemed to make sense any longer.

Sam clapped me on the shoulder. “You need to call your mom.”

I nodded.

“I’ll go tell Lane to order actual food.”

Another nod.

“Oh, Garret?”

I blinked. “Yeah?”

“I know you think you know what went down with your parents. With your dad,” he said pointedly. “But I think that we’re all grown-ups now, and that usually means sticking around to talk through our problems.”

Instead of running away.

Instead of leaving and torching all the bridges behind me.

Like my father had.

“You’re better than him,” Sam said. “Don’t forget that.”

I nodded but, fuck, if my eyes weren’t stinging. Luckily, Sam didn’t seem to notice. He put something on the counter—my cell, I realized—and went back into the other room.

“We need real fucking food,” I heard him say. “STAT.”

But instead of focusing on the ensuing conversation of exactly what kind of food, its quantity, and how soon it could be delivered, I picked up my cell and carried it onto the balcony.

It was time to man up.

And . . . call my mother.

For fuck’s sake, what had the world come to?

The call rang for long enough that I’d already begun second-guessing myself for making the decision to phone at all.

But then, just as I was about to hang up, there she was, voice slightly raspy from sleep. Oh yeah, it was three hours earlier in California. Not that eight was insanely early to be calling home, but my mom was like me—a night owl who did not revel in those morning hours.

“H-hello?” she asked.

“Mom.”

“Garret?” I heard rustling in the background, a rumbling male voice. “Hang on,” she said, and it was muffled, not directed at me. “Honey,” she said, more awake now, voice not raspy. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, Mom,” I said, leaning