Page 126 of Reverie

It’s frustrating as fuck, but not as frustrating as the need to give Winter space.

Winter.

I do the thing I’ve done over and over every hour for the last two weeks.

I push the thoughts of her aside.

You need to get your shit together before you can even begin to think about approaching her again.

I rub my eyes and try to refocus them on the computer screen in front of me when the scent of soy sauce, ginger, and five-spice registers.

I blink in the darkness and startle when I realize my mother is there holding a plate of beef and broccoli and a tall glass of lemonade.

“I don’t know what it is about you all not eating regular meals, but I can’t let you miss what the chef made tonight,” she says, placing the plate on the only spot not covered with papers to the side of the laptop. She moves a stack of legal pads and places a coaster down before putting the glass on top of it.

“Thanks,” I mumble just as my stomach releases an audible growl. With a glance at the clock on the monitor, I realize it’s well into the night and I haven’t eaten since the forgotten bagel this morning.

Mom sits in the chair next to me as I pick up the fork and waste no time shoveling a bite of the food into my mouth. She watches me with her head resting on her fist as she leans against the table, and in a few blinks, the plate is nearly empty.

“See? You were hungry,” Mom says. “You need to take breaks, Hunter.” She flicks on one of the desk lamps, bringing light to the room that isn’t from the ambient glow of the computer monitors.

It’s a mess in here, and I grimace when I take in the clutter. The pile of blankets and pillows in the corner mock me.

I’m not taking very good care of myself right now. I stopped looking in the mirror when I went to the bathroom about a weekago; the prominent dark circles under my eyes reminded me of Christian Bale inThe Mentalist.

She watches me as I finish off the rest of the dish and gulp down the lemonade. I feel full for the first time in days.

“I talked to her this morning,” Mom says, and I close my eyes to avoid her words.

I grunt. I can’t think about Winter. I can’t talk about Winter.

I need to leave Winter alone until I’m good enough to be with her again.

Until I’m good enough to make things safe for her.

Until I am a safe person for her.

“She wants to see you, you know. Your absence is doing more harm than good,” she says.

I try not to grunt again, so I settle for clearing my throat.

“How long are you going to shut her out?” she asks, her voice soft.

I want to lash out at her and make her feel bad for trying to be maternal in this moment.

But I realize that this is her trying. This is her caring.

And it’s okay to allow myself to be cared for, especially by my mom.

“I hurt her,” I say simply.

Mom nods. “It looks that way,” she says.

I rub my thumb over my top lip.

“Hurt people hurt people,” she says. “It sounds trite, right? Like it’s a cop-out for people to act like assholes.” She laughs.

But then she says, “You’re nothing like your father, Hunter,” and air seizes in my chest.

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