Page 11 of Burned By Sin
“I’m not saying it because I have to,” I cut in, lifting my face enough for the words to brush the base of his neck. “I’m saying it because it’s true. You’ve been enough for me, Rhys. Even when you were making a mess of everything, even when you were trying to scare me off, and even when you tried to push me away, you came back, and you didn’t have to.”
Rhys stills, the cigarette frozen between his fingers. The ember glows faintly, then dims as the ash drops to the porch. Good, I’ve got his attention. Sliding one hand up to the back of his neck, my fingers brushing the short hair there.
“I’m scared out of my mind right now, but I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of what’s out there, what’s creeping back in. And you’re here, by my side.” Twisting his head to the side, Rhys’ lips twitch, not quite a smile but it’s something.
“You’re either insane or lying.”
“Maybe a little insane,” I admit, tugging lightly at his arm until he faces me fully. “But definitely not lying.” Rhys drops the cigarette and grinds it out with his heel, the smell of smoke hanging between us. His hands hover like he doesn’t know where to put them, then settle on my hips. It’s tentative, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed.
“You’re not a replacement,” I insist. “You’re Rhys, and you’re mine.”
For a long moment he just looks at me, his eyes searching cautiously. I know how difficult it is for Rhys to open up, how he wraps himself in a tattooed cage to keep the rejection out. But when he looks at me like this, I know he’s baring a piece of his soul. He exhales slowly, his forehead dipping until it touches mine.
“I thought claiming people like objects went against your high morals,” he whispers. I chuckle softly, tracing his abdomen with my finger.
“Only when you announce it to the world before you tell me.” Rhys lets out a low sound, almost like a laugh but rougher, and pulls me in until I’m completely wrapped against him. His chin rests on top of my head, and for the first time all day, he doesn’t feel like he’s about to break something or someone. He’s finally at ease. I bathe it in while it lasts, because I know this isn’t the last time we’ll have this conversation. Once we leave to find Clay, it might become an hourly necessity.
Chapter Seven
Itching the dissolvable stitches under my military jacket, I stare at the care home until the truck radio dies mid-song and leaves the world oddly quiet. Perfume hangs heavy in the passenger seat, the yellow roses giving off that sweet, fake smell. I’ve driven up this driveway more times than I can count over the past few weeks, unable to make it any further than the parking lot. Today I figured spending money I don’t have on flowers would be what gets me to cross the threshold. So far, it’s not working.
The building looks softer than I expected, mismatched bricks like somebody tried to stitch something decent together out of scraps. Strings of white lights trail the roofline and wrap around the green canopies hanging over balconies. Frost rims the grass on either side of the path, the flowerbeds bare except for wired reindeers sporadically spaced amongst the soil. A plastic wreath sits crooked above the entrance, its red bow sagging, but the sentiment is there. Christmas is coming, even if some of us have no reason to celebrate.
Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I watch family members enter and exit through the double doors ahead. I should be amongst them. I should stop tapping my foot and get out of this damn cab, but what am I supposed to tell her? I’m not the son she’s expecting,the one she’d prefer. I’m the criminal turned college dropout. Usually people do those things in the opposite way, so props to me I guess.
Fuck it. There’s no use leaving just to come back and sit here again tomorrow. I’ll still be the same me. Swallowing whatever is left of my pride, I grab the bouquet a little too roughly and climb out of the truck. My boots hit the pavement with a solid beat until I reach the reception desk, my heart pounding in my chest. The woman behind the monitor is engrossed in her screen, so I ring the bell with a sharp ding.
“Sign the visitor book,” she grumbles without looking up, and I instantly recognize the voice as the same woman who snaps at me whenever I call. She’s exactly how I presumed she would look, all scowl lines and bitter vibes. I pull the book toward me and snag a pen, scrawling my name in the visitor column until my eyes snag on another name on the opposite page. I flip back through the book and find the same name repeated several times in the last few months, all under my mom’s name.
“’Cuse me?” I ask, lifting the book high so the receptionist has to stop what she’s doing and focus. “Who is this?” I point to Dekken H. Cornstone’s name written in unnecessarily fancy cursive. Her brow lifts, a suspicious glint passing through her features.
“And you are?”
I snort, slamming the book down. The frustration I feel isn’t solely directed at her, it’s at myself. I’ve been a ghost in my mom’s life, only dropping in a call when I have the strength to deal with the fall out. I’ve been a part-time son, and now I’m here throwing my weight around like I deserve answers.
“I’m Clayton Michaels. My mother is a permanent resident here. Please just…can you tell me who this is?” The receptionist twists her mouth, considering whether to humor me or not.
“Well, it’s nice you’re paying her a visit. I’m sure Anya will be veryhappy to see you,” she says in a syrupy, sarcastic tone. “Surely you recognize your own cousin’s name.”
“My cousin?” I frown, the heat rising beneath my collar and causing those stitches to burn. She nods slowly as if explaining a grammar rule to a child.
“The child of your aunt is your cousin. He’s rather popular around here. Always stopping by for a chat, bringing cookies for the staff. A very nice young man.” The corner of her mouth softens whilst mine sharpens. He must be a very nice young man indeed, considering he’s charming enough to convince everyone that my mother isn’t an only child. I don’t have any fucking cousins. I don’t have anyone except the woman somewhere in this building who doesn’t have a clue who I am.
“Where’s her room?” I bark harshly. I’m offered a reluctant point of a finger by the shit receptionist who apparently never checks ID. Forgetting about the flowers, I storm away before I do something rash, such as launch the damn computer through the window. I’m already fighting one mission, but as soon as I leave here, I’ll be contacting whoever is responsible for not installing surveillance cameras in a building filled with vulnerable people.
It takes everything in me to quell that anger before I burst through my mom’s door. That wouldn’t be the entrance I’ve spent weeks psyching myself up to. I lean against the wall, taking a few steady breaths. I do not know what I will find inside, and I still don’t know how I’m going to handle being myself. I planned to go into that room as Jeremy, the golden boy, but I can’t. It would be an injustice to his memory, and to my mom. Regardless of my self-esteem being in the gutter, she doesn’t deserve to be lied to. For today at least, I’ll let her see me. Not the ghost of Jeremy, not some stranger she’s forced to invent. Just me.
I knock softly, and step inside with the faintest of smiles. My chest tightens at the sight of her in the chair by the window, hunched over a cross-stitch as the sun catches her hair and makes it look like it has a halo. The woman who dressed me, fed me, and kept me warm wheneverything else fell apart is reduced to a fragile frame and a ball of wool. I shut the door behind me, the tear I cannot hold back slipping past my defenses. Her dark eyes swivel to me and she lets out a delighted shriek as she throws the stitching to the floor.
“Jelly Bean!” she calls, arms raised. Sucking in a painful breath, despite the slice carving through my chest, I shake my head.
“No, Mom. It’s me.” I pull my beanie off and force my voice to be steady. “It’s Clayton.” The words taste like an apology, like I am saying sorry for not being the son she remembers.
“Clayton,” she breathes, her reach becoming hesitant. I close the distance, allowing her hand to smooth up my arm, and as I lower, to cup my face. For a moment, I see her searching, her dark eyes flickering with panic, confusion, and then something worse. Emptiness. She looks past me, scanning the corners of the room like I’ve slipped out of view, like I’ve become one of the ghosts her mind conjures to keep her company. My chest caves as her fingers falter, dropping back to her lap, and she starts humming to herself, rocking just slightly in her chair.
“Mom…” I whisper, crouching down so we’re level. But she’s somewhere else, years back or in a place I can’t follow. My throat burns as I press my palms together, begging silently for her to see me. Then her gaze catches mine again with a sharpness so sudden, it’s as if I can see the clouds parting.
“My baby boy,” she says, a smile breaking across her face. My mom leans forward, kissing both my cheeks as if she hasn’t missed a beat, as if the last few minutes didn’t happen. “You’ve gotten so big.”
