Page 39 of What You Own
Something stuck in my throat, and I swallowed it down. I stood up and hugged them both, real tight, not sure I’d ever loved my mom more than in that moment. We untangled ourselves. Momma wiped her eyes, then smiled at us both. “You wanna join us for lunch, Adam?” she asked. “We have plenty.”
“I probably shouldn’t,” Adam said.
“No one here’s gonna tell your daddy you came over.”
Her words made Adam visibly relax. He glanced at me, then smiled. “Okay.”
“How do you want me to introduce you?”
He seemed stuck on that one, so I jumped in. “Old friend from high school. We reconnected over the center fundraiser.” Off his surprised look, I said, “What? It’s the truth. They don’t need to know more than that.”
The gratitude burning in his eyes was more than enough thanks.
Adam knew how to work a room (or backyard) full of strangers. He stumbled briefly when he shook my daddy’s hand, then settled into his role as a friend of the family. He dug into a plate of barbecued chicken and coleslaw and other salads, and I hadn’t felt so content at a picnic in years. He’d come to me upset. I’d calmed him down, and he was smiling again.
If that wasn’t a relationship we could both count on, I didn’t know what was.
Adam
ICOULDN’Tstop marveling over how easily Ryan’s parents accepted me back into his life. In the three hours I spent in their home, I never felt unwanted. Never thought they were pretending or putting up a front of politeness for Ryan’s sake. I didn’t want to leave.
Ryan and I helped clean up after the other guests had left. His mom tried to give me a doggy bag, but I insisted no. I had no way to explain the food. We talked about the fundraiser, my internship, the center—everything except the past, and I was grateful. As much as Ryan blamed himself for kissing me and getting us bashed in the first place, his parents could easily blame me for neither of us getting real justice for how badly we were hurt. Maybe Ryan had come away less physically damaged, but he’d been left with anxiety and a pretty clear fear of dark, isolated areas.
As the time inched closer to four, I knew the spell had to break. “I should get going.”
“You goin’ to see the fireworks tonight?” Ryan asked.
I wanted to see the kind of fireworks I got when his cock was pounding away at my prostate, but I couldn’t say that in front of his parents. Maybe I’d text it to him later. “Have to. LQF is sponsoring them this year, so we have to make an appearance.”
“If you can slip away, we usually go to the park, near the war statue.”
“I’ll try.”
I couldn’t promise more, especially if Dad had noticed my long absence and questioned me about it. I didn’t want to draw suspicion from him, not over anything. He’d probably buy me wanting to get away and clear my head over what Annette told me, and I truly had done that. The only lie I’d have to tell was where I’d gone—even if it was a lie of omission.
The barbecue was winding down by the time I got home, and most of our guests had left, including Annette. Less than half a dozen remained, and they’d clear out soon now that the food was served. Dad and Joe were chatting in a pair of deck chairs, each clutching a glass of rum punch. Seeing the alcohol now, knowing what I knew, made me irrationally angry at both of them. Drinking right on top of the place where Mom died.
“Adam, where’ve you been, son?” Joe asked.
“I needed some time to myself,” I replied, giving Dad my undivided attention. “Can I talk to you, please? In private?”
Dad raised a single eyebrow, obviously surprised at my request for face time, because it happened so rarely. “Of course. Joe?”
“I’ll see you later, Ray,” Joe said. “Happy Fourth, Adam.”
“Happy Fourth,” I parroted. I took the chair Joe vacated and sat kind of stiffly, elbows on my knees, hands clutched tight between them. Coming at him defensively wouldn’t do me any good, but I’d failed to consider another strategy before engaging, and now I didn’t know how to begin.
“What’s wrong, son?” Dad asked. “It isn’t like you to disappear during a function like this. You know I count on you to make a good impression with my clients.”
“I know.” There really was no pretty way to put things. No easy way to ask this. “Why didn’t you tell me that Mom was an alcoholic?”
Dad fumbled his glass, sloshing red liquid across the arm of his chair. “I beg your pardon?”
“Annette told me earlier.”
He narrowed his eyes like a man expecting to be fed a bald-faced lie. “Told you what, exactly?”
“That Mom was drunk when she fell into the pool. That she’d been drinking for years because she was unhappy.” The rage and sense of betrayal came back, tightening my chest, making it hard to breathe. “Why didn’t you stop her from drinking?”
