Page 74 of A Little Crush
“What about Jax?” my mom prods. I don’t miss the knowing glint on her eye. “Your dad’s worried he’s putting too much pressure on himself.”
Is he that obvious? Why, yes. Yes, he is.
I pick at my cuticles, debating how many details I should give before deciding on a broader approach instead of getting into the nitty gritty. You know, like Jaxon climbing into my bed without an invitation. Not that he wouldn’t have gotten one with a simple request. But I digress.
“Yeah, Jaxon likes to put a lot of pressure on himself,” I admit, “but it isn’t Dad’s fault.”
“I know, but it’s still hard to see someone you care about beating themselves up.”
“True.”
“Speaking of which.” She tilts her head toward the show. “You sure you’re okay? I know this is your comfort show.”
Apparently, Jax isn’t the only one who’s obvious.
Barely casting the television a glance, I pick up another popcorn piece and nibble on the edge, lying, “I’m good.” Or maybe it isn’t a lie. Honestly, I’m not sure.
I can feel my mom’s gaze bouncing around my face as if she can’t decide, either, but I don’t bother looking up. The less help I give so she can read me like an open book, the better.
“How’s watching Poppy?” she asks.
“Good.” I smile, and this time it’s more genuine. “She’s the cutest thing ever.”
“She really is.” My mom shifts on the cushion, trying to make herself comfortable. “You know, when we had Mav andArcher, it was a pretty big trigger for your dad. How are you on that front?”
My lips bunch on one side as I realize why she was shifting on the couch. Because she was uncomfortable. Not physically, but by the topic she was about to bring up.
Sneaky, Mom. Very sneaky.
We don’t usually talk about it. My OCD. Not that it’s taboo or anything. But the more attention you give OCD, the louder it can be, and since my dad has the same not-so-awesome disorder, they’re well-versed in the do’s and don’ts accompanying it.
“I’m handling it,” I answer.
“You’re sure?”
I nod. “Yeah. I mean, I can feel when I want to question things or when I want to act on my compulsions, but overall, I’m able to keep it in check.”
“That’s good.”
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason in particular.” She tucks my hair behind my ear. “I just worry about you sometimes. I know you have your fancy psychology degree and that you know how to take care of yourself, but it’s okay if you need a tune-up, you know?”
She’s right. It is. And it’s not uncommon, either. Experiencing new things or routine shifts are known triggers for a lot of disorders, including my own. Add in twenty-four-seven access to an attractive hockey coach I’ve been in love with for decades, and the responsibility of a helpless child I adore, and I’m not sure I ever really stood a chance.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m not above asking for help if I need it.”
“Good.” She steals another handful of popcorn before patting her shoulder. “Now, get over here. Hades isn’t the only snuggler in this house.”
Scooting closer, I rest my temple on her shoulder and sigh, grateful for my mom and the relationship we have. That I can talk to her. Commiserate with her. Share everything with her. Okay, maybe I didn’t share everything, but it isn’t because I can’t. I’m just…not ready. And after decades of conversations with my mom, I know she’s okay with that part, too. The waiting game. The open door and open arms I know are ready to catch me whenever I’m ready to let her. She’s my rock. My confidante. My best friend.
“Missed you,” I tell her.
“Missed you, too.” She kisses the top of my head, then rests her own against me whileGilmore Girlsplays on the screen in front of us. Two episodes later, the popcorn’s gone, and an almost empty pint of Ben & Jerry’s sits on the coffee table beside the empty bowl when my phone buzzes with a text.
Dodger
So…I heard we broke up.
