Page 85 of The Secret We Keep
She nods. “I needed to know you were okay.”
“I am,” I lie, shaking my head, wondering what on earth Fi might have told her, and also hating myself for causing them worry.
“Paddy.” Mum sucks in a breath. “You’re a sensitive boy when it comes down to it—”
“For crying out loud, Mum. Make me sound pathetic, why don’t you?”
“Let me finish,” she sighs.
I sit back in my seat, conceding.
“You have always prided yourself on being the person people turn to when they need something. Whether it’s a laugh, a shoulder to cry on or just needing a friend, you have always been that man.”
I unlock my jaw. “Or a blow job?” I joke, making her laugh. That’s a sound I like to hear.
“Or one of those, yes,” she chuckles, rubbing her head like she’s trying to erase the thought. “It came as no surprise to me that you wanted to become someone who cares for people, son. And it certainly didn’t shock me when I heard that you had a girlfriend that had moved in with you so quickly.”
I nod, leaning my elbows on the table to mirror Mum. “It was fast,” I agree.
Mum taps my arm. “But that’s you all over.” She gets up from the table and flicks the kettle on again. “Only, you’re never like that with one person.”
My eyebrows arch, seeing right through her. “What are you getting at?” I ask anyway.
She turns to face me, hesitating before she says in a rush, “Morgan. You’ve always been so caring and attentive with that girl, even when you were younger.”
I wait for her to elaborate, tilting my head.
“You really like her, don’t you?”
My lips part to protest, but I can’t. “So what if I do?” I mutter, heart rate spiking, admitting my feelings towards Morgan out loud for the first time ever. I’ve only just admitted it to myself, so this feels weird.
She lifts her hands. “I’m pleased for you.”
My head lands in my open palms. I’m suddenly exhausted. The early hour catching up with me where I’m out of practice.
I listen as Mum potters around the kitchen, only moving when she places another cup of tea on the table before she comes and sits beside me. “Is that where you were tonight? With her?”
I exhale and lift my head. “She asked me to pick her up. I took her home.”
Mum’s eyes bounce between mine, seemingly satisfied. “And you were happy driving her? In your car, I mean.”
Fuck.
My heart jumps to my throat. She doesn’t need this stress. “Why wouldn’t I be?” I ask with a glance away from her, like this is just a normal chat.
She leans forward and rests her hands over mine reassuringly. Waiting. Not pushing. Not pressing me. “I don’t know, son. That’s why I’m asking.”
My breathing quickens. My gaze shifts to the table.
Mum watches me. That quiet, piercing way how she used to when we were kids. She cares, but she’s worried. “Patrick,” she says softly,only using my name but with it, letting me know she’s not dropping it.
“How do you know?” Because I haven’t burdened her with this. I haven’t given her any cause for concern when it comes to me.
When I peer up, she looks at me like she’s sorry for me. Sorry that I’ve been stupid enough to have believed my own mother wouldn’t realise I’ve been struggling. “I’ve seen you avoid having anyone in your car since you’ve been home. I could hear you, you know, being sick in your toilet after you got back.”
Her sympathetic face causes my stomach to constrict. I thought I’d hidden it well enough. Obviously not. “You did?”
She nods. “The only thing that can make my boy sick is his fear. So I’ll ask you again, son. What’s got you drinking whisky in the early hours of the morning?”
