Page 90 of Every Broken Piece
“Gabe.”
“I’m bringing her home.” Those four words feel so right that they make my chest ache. I just hope Tess feels at least partially the same way.
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow.” I end the call and tilt my head back, closing my eyes and breathing deep. This Montrose meeting couldn’t have come at the worst time. I’ll be ready. I don’t have a choice. But damn I’d kill for one more day so I can at least breathe.
“I’ll never be free of her.”
I spin around to find Tess standing behind me, wrapped tightly in her bright yellow daisy blanket. She’s pale. Thosegorgeous tiger eyes are sharp and beautiful but it’s the resignation in them that guts me. She’s giving up and I hate it.
“You can, and you will. Starting now. Let me help you, Tess. Come home with me.”
Her eyes drift closed. Her shoulders rise, then fall. Her fingers twitch as they grip the blanket. I let her go inside her head where she needs to be to make this leap of faith. It’s a huge leap. A life changing leap. I want her to understand that she can have the life she wants without her mother.
She opens her eyes and nods. “Okay.” Then a little louder. “Okay. I’ll go with you.” She pins me with a stern look. “Just for a little while. Until I can figure out what to do next.”
“For however long you’d like.”
“Not forever.” She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself.
“For however long you’d like,” I repeat. If that’s forever, I’m not complaining.
She huffs out a breath that could be frustration or could be relief. She chews on her bottom lip, then nods again. Just like that my heart feels a thousand pounds lighter.
She’s coming home with me. The rest we can handle later.
I find her sitting on her bed, staring at a jumbled pile of shirts and pants and socks and hoodies of every color.
“You good?”
“I don’t know what to take,” she says.
“Take what makes you feel comfortable.” Getting dressed is a struggle for her, so comfort it is until that wrist is healed. “If you forget something we can always buy it.”
She runs a hand through the pile of clothes. I see a t-shirt that says, “Hollywood—Star Studded and Sunny”.
“You don’t need to spend your money on me.”
I move into the room, push the pile back and sit beside her on the edge of the bed. “I know I don’t need to. I want to.”
She grabs a sweatshirt and nervously starts folding it, but the strings stick to the Velcro of her wrist brace and she lets out a frustrated huff. I gently untangle them and pull the sweatshirt from her hands.
“I don’t want you to think you’re responsible for me,” she whispers.
“I know I’m not, but I want to be. Let me take care of you. Please?”
Her body tilts to the side until she’s resting her head on my shoulder. It’s the single best feeling in the world to have her leaning on me for support. I don’t think she recognizes the significance of this simple action, that by leaning she’s letting me hold her up even if it is for a moment.
“I want so badly to believe you” she whispers.
“What don’t you believe?”
“Everything.”
“I can’t convince you if I don’t have specifics.”
She winds the hoodie strings through her fingers. “That I can be free of my mother. That I can be...happy.”
