Page 80 of Not Made to Last

So does she. “What did I miss?”

I get comfortable. Or as comfortable as one can get, considering I’m sitting on a plastic chair. I’ve spent many, many hours in this room. Or closet, really. It used to be storage for cleaning supplies, and no matter how many incense and oils Belinda burns, most days, you can still smell the bleach in the air.

“Rhys?” she says, gaining my attention.

After a heavy sigh, I ask what I came here to ask—you know, before Oscar and Olivia barged in. “Did you know?”

“Obviously not, considering I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“So, my mom didn’t tell you about her?”

“Olivia?”

I nod, focused on my hands while I try to rub the tension out of them.

“Rhys…” she says, and after a few seconds, I force my eyes up, but keep my head low. “I’ve never met Olivia before, and I’m almost certain I didn’t know of her existence until a few days ago.”

“But you did,” I tell her, and I hesitate to go on. To speak the truth out loud. Because saying it means it’s real, and I don’t know how to process that. “Olivia isMercedes.”

Belinda attempts and fails at silencing her gasp. “Oh.” And then her eyes narrow, go distant as her mind works. Finally, she forms the pieces of the puzzle, but it’s obvious she doesn’t quite know how they fit.

Belinda is the only person in my life who knows about Mercedes and what she means to me. What shemeantto me. I spent so many sessions just relaying the conversations I’ve had with Mercedes. She knows about the first time we’d exchanged meaningful text messages. About how that initial conversation sparked something inside of me that had sat dormant formonths. She knows the meaning of the nameMercedes. She knows exactly why my favorite line in a book with over 464,000 words is“All human wisdom is contained in these two words - Wait and Hope.”And she knows exactly what those words mean to me. What I was willing to do for someone I’d never met:wait and hope.

Belinda looks at me, watches me fight through the myriad of emotions I can’t seem to escape. “What does your mom have to do with Mercedes—orOlivia?”

I suck in a breath, hold it, then stand, because sitting seems to agitate the anger inside me. “She paid Olivia to keep tabs on me.”

“Holy fuck.”

“No shit.”

“Wait.” She lifts both hands, palms up, as if she needs time to slow down. I get it. I’ve felt like that since my mom dropped the fucking bomb on my lap, then walked away as if it wouldn’t explode. News flash: that’s the whole fucking purpose of a bomb. “I’m so confused.”

I was, too. But then I spent the past twenty-four hours going over everything in my mind and really, it all makes sense. I think what really pushed me over the edge is the timing of it all. The text from my mom is what woke me yesterday morning while I was in Olivia’s bed. She said she was home and that she needed to see me, and so I snuck out of Liv’s room after leaving her a dumb fucking note on the pillow and went home.

There’s no way I would’ve even guessed the seriousness of what she was about to say going by the way she acted. All calm and aloof, as if her actions had no consequences. “You’ve been speaking to a girl via text for the past three years,” she said. “I don’t know how you refer to her, but her name is Olivia. Olivia Mitchell.”

It felt like the walls caved in and covered the hole the ground had created—the same ground that swallowed me the moment Liv’s name left my mother’s mouth. “I wish I didn’t have to tell you this, but since you’ll be seeing her every day at this new—” she air-quoted “—‘job’ of yours, then you’ll likely find out the truth. And the truth is this… I hired her to talk to you. To get close to you. And to pass on anything she might think is important so I had at least some knowledge of what was going on with you since you were so adamant on pushing us all away after—” She stopped there. She doesn’t talk about what happened that caused the “after.” No one in my family does. “You have to understand the position I was in, Rhys. You had shut down completely, and you refused to move to Colorado, even though you knew we needed to be there for your sister.”

We were sitting at the kitchen counter with the blinds wide open, and the morning sun felt like it was burning me alive. Still, I remained frozen.

Silent.

She slid a bunch of documents across the counter and under my nose: a signed contract and non-disclosure agreement with both her and Olivia’s signatures. “And Olivia… that poor, sweet girl was going through?—”

I cleared my throat, cutting her off. “Is that it?”

My mom stuttered an exhale, her head tilted as she watched me. I made sure to stare back, keep my expression neutral, so I gave nothing away. “I had no other choice, sweetheart.”

In my mind, I yelled, cursed at the top of my lungs and called her out on her bullshit. In reality, I stood up, documents in hand, walked out of the kitchen and out of the house.

I haven’t been back since.

I tell Belinda all of this while I wear out the carpet with my constant pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Has she tried calling you?” Belinda asks, and I give her a pointed look. She nods. “Right,” she says. “Of course she has.”

I’m fully aware that the moment this conversation ends, Belinda will be on the phone to my mom, telling her that I am, at the very least,alive. And you know how I know this? Because Belinda, the therapist of the high school I just graduated from, is also on my mother’s payroll. The difference is that Iknowabout their little arrangement because I’m the one who came up with it. It was part of the deal when, as my mother puts it, I “pushed them all away.”

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