Page 138 of Toxic Temptation
“For, like, a year, if that. And her knitting group met once a month—when they remembered.” Waylen sighs. “She was a wife first, V. She cooked every meal, ironed every shirt. All her friends were wives of Dad’s colleagues.”
He’s right. Painfully right.
“Dad’s death destroyed you, but it erased her.” Waylen reaches across the counter and touches my hand. “She lost her identity when she lost him.”
“I was so wrapped up in my own grief, I never…” I trail off, shame burning in my chest.
“There’s something else.”
I look up at him. “What?”
“I always thought you knew how hard it was for her. I thought that’s why you pulled back from relationships.”
“What do you mean?”
He gives me a look that says he can’t believe I’m this clueless. “V, the first relationship you’ve had in years is fake. That’s not a coincidence.”
I cringe and hide my face. I hurt in a way that’s not quite physical and not quite emotional. “I’ll call her today,” I mumble quickly, desperate to change the subject, if only to stop this strange aching in my chest.
Waylen pulls out his phone and slides it across the counter. “No time like the present.”
I stare at the phone like it might bite me. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“What are big brothers for?”
I pick up the phone, already planning my revenge. Maybe I’ll put salt in his coffee tomorrow. Or hide his car keys.
Or maybe I’ll just finally tell him the truth about how terrified I am that he’s right about everything.
Waylen steps out of the room to give me space without saying much. He knows this is hard for me. That I’d prefer to keep my baggage buried deep out of sight.
The problem is that that baggage is alive and well and lives in this city, and goes by the nameMom.I can’t exactly ignore her forever.
I dial her number before I can lose my nerve. She answers with panic in her voice. “Vesper? Is everything okay?”
Her voice sounds exactly the same as it always does since we lost Dad. Thin. Tired. Like she’s speaking through Styrofoam.
“Everything’s fine, Mom. I just wanted to call and check in.”
“Oh.” There’s a pause, and I can practically hear her trying to figure out what to say next. “That’s... that’s nice, sweetheart.”
The awkward silence opens wide between us, filled with all the things we don’t know how to say to each other anymore. I used to think it was because we were both grieving. Now, I’m wondering if we just never learned how to talk without Dad as our translator.
“How’s work?” she asks finally.
“Busy. Same as always.” I twist a strand of hair around my finger. “How are you doing?”
“Fine. Keeping busy.”
Fine.That’s no answer at all. I want to ask what she does all day in that empty house. Whether she still sets the table for two out of habit. Whether she’s eating enough.
Whether she misses me at all.
“Waylen says you’ve been working too much,” she continues.
“He worries too much.”
“He gets that from your father.”
