Page 59 of Tell Me You Love Me

Though I’m not sure if I can go into town again. Like, ever. I certainly can’t look Ollie or Chris or Tommy in the eyes for the rest of my life. Or Caroline. Or really, any person who lives in this godforsaken town.

“You infuriate me, Alana. Motherhood has done nothing to mature you.” Folding her arms, Bitsy leans against the doorframe and huffs. “Always sneaking around. Drinking. Going out till God knows what time. You think I didn’t already get a call from Barbara this morning? She said that Bill said you were arguing with Tommy Watkins at Darlene’s last night. Have you no shame?”

Arguing with Tommy Watkins? Ha! My shame is too busy worrying about other, worse things.

“You are not a teenager anymore! You’re a grown woman who should be able to?—”

“Oh, shut up, Mother.” I spit into the sink and run water right after it to wash the white foam down, then I cup a little more and drink straight from my palms, chugging the clear liquid like I haven’t had any in days. Weeks, even.

“Excuse you!” My mother bursts, exactly how I knew she would. “You do not speak to me like that in my own?—”

“You insist on hating me.” I flip the tap off and wipe my face on the towel hung on the wall. “For reasons I’ll never relate to, you seem to enjoy building yourself up by tearing me down. And you know what?” I don’t even care if she cares. I simply push past her and into the hall. “I’m not who I was ten years ago, Mom. I was a child back then, constantly squished beneath the weight of your impossible demands, begging for your approvaland lashing out when I couldn’t get it. It’s apparent you believe you’ve birthed the worst daughter in the history of the world.”

I move onto the stairs and make my way down. Though I hold the banister because I’m not sure I won’t tumble to my death if I rely on my legs to do all the work. “Maybe I really am the worst. Maybe you gotreallyunlucky. Or maybe you’re a miserable cow who can’t see how much I truly wanted to please you back then.”

I reach the bottom stair and glance back to find her still at the top, holding the rail and glowing an ugly, angry red.

“I tried so hard, Mom. Every single day of my childhood, I tried to make you happy. But there are only so many times you can tell me how horrible I am before I stop giving a shit.”

“Watch your potty mouth in my home!”

“So maybe you got the worst daughter in the world. Or maybe I got the worst mother in the world. Ormaybewe just weren’t a good fit for each other. But either way, I no longer care. Because I see now, as a mother myself, that a child shouldneverbeg for love. It’s not a privilege. It’s not something that should be given with conditions or taken away because they didn’t act how you wanted them to act. Love is forever, and it’s unconditional. It’s tragic you never learned that. But that’s on you. Not me. Because my son knows he’s safe with me, he knows my feelings will never go away.”

I turn and wave her off so I don’t have to listen to her argue back, and then I push through the kitchen door with the best smile I can muster on a hungover Sunday morning, only to skid to a stop.

Because Tommyfuckin’Watkins sits at the table across from my son, a chessboard set up between the pair, but both sets of eyes silently stuck on me.

My face.

My horror.

“You havegotto be kidding me?!”

Tommy’s lips curl into devious lines, his eyes dancing with a taunting playfulness. But he has the good sense to drop his gaze and swallow the laughter bubbling along his throat.

“Hey, Mom.” Franky extends his arm, summoning me while he studies the half-complete game. But when I don’t move—I can’t—he flicks his wrist in demand. “This one is Tommy, Mom. He almost tricked me, because the first time I met him, he was smiley. Then the second time, he was cranky. He’s smiling again today, so I wasn’t sure…”

“Mmm. I can see how that might be confusing.”God, kill me now. Smite me down and make sure it’s permanent!I wander forward, folding my gown tighter across my chest and retying the sash in the time it takes to reach the table. And though I would normally breathe a little better simply because my son wraps his arm over my back and pulls me in for a side hug, my eyes remain firmly on Tommy’s barely hidden smirk. His dancing eyes. “So you’re, uh… playing chess, honey?”

Tommy lifts his head, opening his mouth to speak.

But I stop-sign him, shaking my head when his brows pinch closer together. “I was talking to my son.” I look down at the board—Franky is winning—and draw a long breath. “I guess I’m a little confused, baby. You don’t usually play chess in the mornings.” Or with people other than me or Colin.You especially don’t play a fucking Watkins! “And it’s still really early.”

“He was fixing something or…” He moves his knight and shrugs. “Something. I forget. You were still asleep, and I said how I like chess.”

“And Tommy suggested a game, of course.” My lips peel back into a snarl when the man grins. “Interesting. Are you nearly done? Because Tommy needs to go back to his house, and we have jobs to do here.”

“I’m usually treated to a cooked breakfast on Sundays when I help around the house.” Tommy moves his pawn—I’m not sure if he’s bad at the game or brilliantly suicidal—then he links his fingers together and tilts his head to the side. “Bitsy needed some work done in the shed, and as payment, she typically cooks for me.”

“Such a shame.” I press a kiss to the top of Franky’s head before circling away and moving to the fridge. “Since she’s not down here cooking for you, I guess she’s not feeling up to it today.”

“You could cook for me.” He sits back, leisurely stretching his legs under the table and burning the side of my face with his smug stare. “Bacon and eggs sound good. And it’s hardly rocket science. Bet you could figure the stove out if you wanted to.”

“But that’s just it.” I grab a bottle of juice and slam the fridge door, jars audibly rattling inside, before I move to the cupboard to my left and pull down two glasses. One for me. One for my child. “Idon’twant to. In fact, I have absolutely no desire to figure it out at all. What I would like to do is hang out with my son, watch some Sunday morning cartoons on the television, and ignore literally every other person who exists in this world.”

I pour the juice and ignore the liquid that rolls along the side of theglass, cruel flashbacks of tequila spilling over a shot glass playing in my mind. But I can’t go there. I won’t. I refuse.

I set the bottle down and take one juice in each hand, and placing Franky’s by his elbow, I bring the other up and take a small sip. “Sorry. Not enough for three.”

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