Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“Yeah,” I whisper. “But I know, logically, that’s ridiculous.”
“It is. Blaming yourself makes you feel in control of a situation. It makes you feel safe. If it’s Eton’s fault for this, then your brain tells you that he has the power. That’s scary. If he has the power, he could do it again, and it’s out of your control. So your brain twists things so you don’t feel so vulnerable. If you did this, then you could’ve stopped it. You can control whether it happens again. But you know that’s not true.”
I think about what she’s saying and she’s exactly right. How fucked up is that? And how wise is my mom? And the therapists who helped put her back together after what Dad did to her.
Did she ever wonder if that was her fault too?
I bury my face in my hands and just sit. Maybe that’s a discussion for another day.
This whole situation is so fucked up. I woke up this morning and thought I had a bad dream. How can this be real?
“I think I’m kind of in shock,” I say, dropping my hands. “I’m numb one minute, and then my brain is going a million miles an hour the next. I can’t get myself steady enough for long enough to make sense of anything.”
She pats my leg. “Give yourself some time if you need it. Or if you need to march on with life today, let me grab my shoes, and I’ll march with you. No one can tell you how traumatic things like this are going to feel or how long it’ll take for you to process it.”
I sit back in my chair and look at my mother. She’s had her fair share of trauma. I’d venture to say I’m right—she’s been in my shoes.
Mom sits stoically in front of me, proof that situations don’t break people. People break people. She didn’t allow my father to break her.
No one will break me either.
I sit a little taller. “Maddox and I …” I struggle to find the words. “We’re on pause, I guess.”
“Over this?”
I shrug. “Maybe. Probably not. I don’t know. In a way, I feel like this was probably going to happen eventually, and Eton’s bullshit just expedited it.”
“Why do you feel that way?”
“Because things were too good. I was so happy.” She knows. She saw me the last night when I was high on love. Yet only a day later, I’m here with a very different outlook.
My eyes fill with tears. “We were so happy. I’ve seen it a thousand times. When things are too good to be true, they’re not true.”
“That’s a terrible way to look at life, sweetheart.”
“But that’s how it goes. Have you ever been happy and just … were happy?”
She presses her lips together. “Life is full of bumps and ditches and … and volcanoes.”
I laugh quietly.
“But you keep going, and eventually, the landscape changes. It’s the way of the world, honey. Don’t get in a ditch and turn facedown. You might miss the sun coming up.”
I get to my feet, twitchy from the conversation. I know she means well. What she’s saying makes sense too. But my love life is a series of ditches. I just keep falling.
“How does Maddox feel about this?” she asks.
“Oh, he’s all too happy to take a break. It’s his modus operandi. Once things start looking hard, he stops. He’s been this way his entire life.”
Mom gets up too and heads back into the kitchen. “So this is it for the two of you?”
“I don’t know. A part of me doesn’t think so. But a part of me also thinks that …” I sigh, irritated. “Here’s the thing—we jumped into this so fast, Mom. And when I looked at him this morning, I knew what he was thinking. He was drifting away even though he said he wouldn’t. He was already questioning us.” I swallow, blinking back tears. “And maybe I was questioning us too.”
I bare my soul to my mother, and she continues slicing apples like we’re discussing the weather.
“I’m having a crisis here,” I say. “Can you pay attention to me?”
She grins but doesn’t look my way. “What do you need me to say, Ashley? What can I help you with?”
“Mother, my heart is broken, and I need some advice. Or a hug. Or for you to tell me what to do. Okay? Pick one. Pick the spot you’re most comfortable talking about, and we’ll engineer the story around it.”
She snickers.
“Mom.”
She sets her knife by the pile of apple slices and sighs. Her eyes are alight with humor. “Do you listen to yourself?”
I glare at her.
“Ashley …” She sighs. “You’ve been through the wringer in the past twenty-four hours. No, the past few years. Between your father and Eton and moving away from me, which had to be hard on you, even if you refuse to admit it, you’ve had to handle a lot of balls thrown your way.”