Tattooed Troublemaker - Elise Faber Page 0,48

to stop. And it did, for a long time. He and his family moved and for five years I thought I could make my marriage work. But then we ended up on the same base again, and . . .”

“I happened.”

“Yes,” she murmured. “My beautiful baby boy with piercing green eyes.” A beat. “Eyes that belonged to another man my husband knew and worked with.”

My lungs froze.

“He couldn’t take it,” she said. “I understood that. Couldn’t blame him, and it wasn’t like your father—er, my husband didn’t provide for us. He paid alimony and child support for your entire lives.”

I’d thought—

Fuck. For so long, I’d thought that he’d seen something wrong in me, that he’d left because of that and now . . .

I didn’t know what to think.

I was thirty years old and just finding out this huge secret that changed everything and—

Fury. I wanted to be furious, trembling with anger. Instead, I was just confused and hurt and wondering why she hadn’t just leveled with me all those years before. It would have saved me from so much angst.

My chin dropped to my chest, carefully tucking that away to process later. Because there was more we needed to discuss. “Sam told me you think I left because of you.”

A pause. “Well, I think that’s clear,” she murmured, pain in her tone, “based on what you overheard.”

“I didn’t,” I said, as much as the secret had thrown me for a loop, this was my mom. She’d worked her ass off for me and Lane. She’d gone to every sporting and school event, had done the Room Mom thing and the homemade cakes and hand-crafted Halloween costumes. She’d been there my whole life and I didn’t want her hurting because of me. “I left because I thought there was this poison inside of me, and that when it came to the people I loved, that toxin infected everything, rotting it from the inside out, ruining everything that was good.” I sucked in a breath. “I thought I was bad, Mom. Thought I’d made Dad leave, that I’d ruined things with Lorna, with Sam and Lane . . . with you.”

“Oh, honey.”

“I left because I didn’t want to feel that way anymore,” I said. “I stayed away because I started not feeling that way.”

“Then why do you sound like you still do?” she asked softly.

I sighed. “Because I met someone else. Because she’s fucking incredible and strong and has been through too much . . . and I started infecting her, too.”

A rasping noise that took me a minute to realize was a sob. “I—” She sniffed. “Garret, you’re not—”

“She’s beautiful and wonderful and everything I always dreamed about having in my life, and I was too scared that I’d hurt her because I was flawed inside, and now—” I broke off, my throat going tight, trying to gain control, trying to remind myself that Charlie was better off.

“Honey,” she murmured.

“Fuck, Mom,” I blurted. “But this is . . . this is a lot to process.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I—” A long, shuddering breath. “Because I didn’t want you to think I was a bad person.”

“I—”

I wanted to tell her that I didn’t think she was a bad person, that it was okay, and I was glad she’d finally told me the truth. But this was a fucking doozy. I didn’t even know where to start in my own mind, let alone out loud.

She sobbed again. “You hate me.”

“No, Mom. I don’t hate you. I . . . just don’t know what to think,” I said. “Other than I wish you’d told me sooner.”

“Garret—”

“I understand why you didn’t.” God knew I was good at avoiding, and that, I supposed, could now be considered a family trait. “I’m going to hang up now. Take some time to sort out my head,” I said softly. “Just know that I don’t hate you, okay?”

“Honey.” Her voice wobbled.

“I. Don’t. Hate. You,” I said, firm now.

Quiet then she whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . so sorry.”

“I know.” A beat. “I love you, Mom,” I said and hung up after she said it back. Only then did I drop my phone to the little table next to me and try to figure out what in the ever-loving fuck had just happened.

My dad hadn’t left because of me. He wasn’t my father at all.

Everything I’d thought I’d known had been torn to shreds again.

And I . . . I wasn’t