Page 60 of Tell Me You Love Me

Tommy’s eyes slide back to the half-full bottle, my lie flickering through the room like it’s wrapped in neon lights and sparkling glitter. But then he chuckles and goes back to studying the board.

“I see.”

“I heard you arguing with Grandma, Mom.” Since it’s not his turn, Franky folds his neck back and searches my eyes. “I don’t think you’re the worst daughter in the world.”

My heart splats, dead inside my chest. I scratch my fingers through his hair and pull him in to rest his cheek against my belly. “Thank you, honey. I’m sorry you had to hear us arguing again. That must get pretty annoying, huh?”

“It’s interesting, mostly.” He straightens and swallows up Tommy’s poorly placed knight. “You never used to shout at all in New York. Now you shout all the time here.”

“A study in human beings,” Tommy mutters. “Something about how we revert to who we used to be when placed in an environment we used to exist within.”

“Also known as stupidity and shortsightedness.” I drink my juice and pray it washes down the frustration intent on clawing along my throat. “The girl I was when I last lived in Plainview was young and naïve. Silly and rarely considered the consequences of her actions.”

On this, at least, Tommy seems to agree. He coughs out a scoff that verges on ayep.

“She was also a child of trauma,” I continue. “Someone who didn’t know how to love herself. And that’s not to say her trauma was, like, the worst in the world. It wasn’t. But its insidiousness made for complicated internal monologue and codependency on outside voices to make her feel worthy of love at all.”

You, Tommy Watkins. You were who I relied on for love.

“But that girl no longer exists. Because that’s what happens when we grow up. The person we used to be is gone, making room for the person we’re meant to become.”

“But that doesn’t make sense.” Franky, too friggin’ logical for his own good, glances up again. “Because maybe the person you used to be wentaway, and the person you became existed in New York. But then we moved to Plainview, and you’re different again. So did the first person go away, or was she on pause, waiting here in Plainview?”

“She wasn’t here, kiddo. We thought she died.” Tommy charges forward with his queen, knocking pieces off the board and earning a panicked gasp from the depths of my son’s soul. “Checkmate.”

“That’s not how you play the game!” Frantic, Franky tries to put the pieces back where they should be. “Tommy! That’s wrong.”

“It’s the queen. She can do whatever she wants.”

“No!” Franky shoves to his feet and puts his fallen king back on the board. “That’s not the rules!”

“Queen makes the rules.” Standing, too, Tommy comes around the table and takes my juice before I think to stop him. “Can we talk on the porch for a moment?”

“Mom! He messed up the pieces!”

Chuckling, Tommy sets the glass down and meets my son’s eyes. “Sorry. You won. I was just being silly.”

“I didn’t win! You didn’t play it right.”

“But I forfeit, which means I lose. You won.”

“That’s not winning!” My poor baby spins out of control, his mind racing and his hands flying across the board. “You have to play it properly.”

“Porch?” Tommy’s eyes come back to mine, burning with a quiet mix of rage and hurt. Wonder and, dare I say, hope. “I just need a moment of your time.”

“You’re not allowed to play chess anymore!” Franky growls. “You don’t play it right.”

“Alana…”

Tell him to leave and cut him off completely?

Or give him his two minutes on the porch and explain whythisisn’t happening?

The first, I did ten years ago. The second, my penance, I suppose, for the hurt I’ve caused.

So I nod. “Alright. Two minutes. Then I’m coming inside.” I meet my son’s eyes. “He was never a very good chess player, honey. You should ask Chris. He’s way better andalwaysfollows the rules.”

Unhappy, Franky screws his nose up and glares at a smiling Tommy.

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