Page 8 of Redemption
The muscle in his jaw jumps, and I have to tell myself to look away.
“You may go. You need to sign some paperwork on your way out,” he says, inching towards me. A hiss of air whistles through my teeth as his fingers brush against mine. He pauses, letting electricity arc between our hands, before leaning in and whispering, “I won. I’ll see you soon. We’ll visit Langston together.”
He might as well have poured a bucket of cold water over my head. He’s right. My mother fussed at me for being arrested, but she hasn’t said anything to Hayes the entire time she’s been here.
Looking over to where she is sitting, I notice her sit up a little taller, but she must not have heard what Hayes said to me because if she had, there’s no way she would have let it go. Her eyes bounce between us, a funny look flitting across her face before she schools her features.
Unwilling to answer him and admit he is right, I turn on my heel and flee.
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Escaping from Hayes only solves one of my problems because my mother follows me with a click of her heels against the tile and a shrill call of “young lady” that I ignore.
Goosebumps pebble my skin—from the air conditioner, not the way I can still feel tingles sparking up my fingertips at the exact places Hayes’s touched mine—not that at all.
I stop at the front desk to fill out the forms and gather the belongings that Hayes brought in from the car while Mom stands behind me, waiting politely, face devoid of emotion—we are in public, after all. It would be a shame if people were to think she’s actually human.
With the paperwork complete and my phone and favorite chapstick in hand, I make a beeline for the parking lot, refusing to look back.
It isn’t until I’m outside, melting in the sweltering heat again, that I realize I’m about to spend alone time with my mother for the first time in three years. Inside the station didn’t count. People were milling about. She wouldn’t dare air the family drama—especially not after what happened six years ago.
This entire day has been less than ideal, but getting into the car with her will be the low of the low.
Yippee for me.
My mother’s voice floats from behind me in the polite but detached tone I hate so much. “My car is over there. I’ve already sent someone to pick yours up from the side of the road.”
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes—a habit that is exacerbated anytime I’m in my mother’s presence.
It shouldn’t be surprising that she sent one of her people to pick my car up. There aren’t a lot of things she does on her own. I should be grateful—it’s one less thing I have to do from this day from the devil—but it irritates me that it’s one more thing I owe her for.
The day I called and asked if I could come home made the top five in the worst days of my life. I didn’t want to admit I failed, but it was the cold, hard truth that I couldn’t run from. I had nowhere else to go. I needed a place to figure my life out becausethe one I planned for was crumbling apart faster than a crumb cake. So—I called home, and the moment I did, I subjected myself to a lifetime of being in my mother’s clutches. I escaped them once, but I won’t be able to do so again.
I didn’t tell her why I was coming home, though. I couldn’t make myself. The event that caused me to make the drastic decision to come home was the second worst day of my life. I couldn’t talk about it—especially not with her, so I told her I needed a change of scenery. She was content to accept the lie, or maybe it was just that our mother-daughter relationship is so fractured that if she had asked for the truth, she would have to face all the places where we are broken.
When I called, I’d asked if I could stay in my old room while I looked around for a place, and she had said, in a voice that held no excitement about my return, that she would have someone prepare my room. We haven’t spoken since that day three weeks ago, besides the one text I sent her to tell her the day I would arrive—which she didn’t bother responding to.
The silence between us has been surprising—the woman likes to gloat, and my return home was reason enough for her to. She didn’t think I would make it half as long as I did on my own. Yet, she hasn’t said “I told you so” once. It’s—strange.
Stalking across the five-car parking lot, I throw open the door on her car. It’s the only pretentious car in the lot full of old beaters. No one flaunts their money quite like my parents.
I slam the door and wait for the fight that’s coming.
It only takes two seconds before Mom slips behind the wheel, but instead of the lashing I’m waiting for, silence fills the car, making my skin itch. The silence leaves me too much time to think about today and Hayes and Langston, and suddenly, I’m doing the one thing I never imagined I would—starting a conversation with my mother.
“So—how was your day? Do anything exciting?” I ask.
I regret the question as soon as it’s out there. I opened a direct path to finish the conversation that was started back at the station.
What I don’t expect, though, is the laugh that comes from her side of the car. I whip my head around so fast that a cramp runs up my neck.
Aliens have taken over my mother—it’s the only logical reason I can think of for the laugh.
My mouth drops open as I continue to stare at her.
“Darling, close your mouth. It’s not very lady-like to stare.”
And, just like that, we are back to our regularly scheduled programming.
