Page 126 of Pieces of Me

Jamie watches me, her jaw set.

“Anyway, he wanted me to pass that on to you, and you can do with it what you want, but he just wanted you to know…”

Her lips part, and she starts to speak. Stops herself. Her throat moves with her swallow as her touch on me loosens. “What are you hiding from me?”

My shoulders drop, my head falling forward. I can’t look at her when I say, “My mom isn’t doing too well, Jamie.”

Her gasp is soft, quiet. “Is she sick?”

“Not physically,” I choke out, and I look up to see Jamie nodding, as if she understands. “I could tell the moment I saw her today. She’s lost weight and… and Joseph said she hasn’t been eating properly, and she just spends her days in bed crying. Baby, she’s so scared she’s losing me, she can’t even—”

“She’s not losing you. And you know that’s not what I wanted.”

“But that’s howshefeels, and I have to understand that. I have tovalidatethat.” I take a breath, try to calm the thoughts racing through my mind. “They didn’t even return to their honeymoon, she was so stressed out, and this is the first time they’ve come back here because she was so afraid to upset us, and Joseph—he said he got her to speak to someone… like a psychiatrist, or something, and now she’s on these meds because they diagnosed her with depression, and these meds… they’re fucking with her head, and I don’t—” A knot lodges in my throat, making it impossible to speak, and Jamie’s right there, holding me the way I’ve held her so many times before. “She’s mymom, Jamie,” I croak, pulling away. “Andyourmom—”

“Don’t,” she cuts in, shaking her head in warning. “Don’t do that, Holden. Don’t hurt me because you’re hurting. I know who my mother was—”

“That’s not…” That’s exactly what I was going to do. I lean forward, press a kiss to her forehead. “I promise, this has nothing to do with you. I just… I need to go.”

“Gowhere?”

I gently lift her off my lap. “A walk. I need to clear my fucking head.”

54

Jamie

For the past few years, I’ve lived my life somewhat on the edge. I’ve dared to do things that most people would find terrifying. I’ve jumped off fifty-foot cliffs in dark ocean water and hiked overnight in areas where night falls so black you can’t see a foot in front of your face. I did all this with the knowledge that no outcome could be more terrifying than walking into Beaker’s house that day.

But, the difference between entering Beaker’s house and sending a simple text message is that I didn’t know what to expect when I walked in.

I do now.BecauseI’min control of it. I have to be.

The reply to my message comes only seconds later, and for minutes, I just stare at it. Waiting. Wanting more. Nothing comes.

I get in the shower, only somewhat expecting Holden to return in the meantime, so I’m not surprised when the house is empty when I get out. And then… I get to work.

And I revert back to the old me.

I rid my world of impurities and my body of shame. I dust every piece of furniture, wipe down every surface, clean every inch of flooring, and pick out the clothes I change into. I iron out every crease, polish every button.

It’s been a while since I’ve worn these clothes. Since I’ve felt the need toshowperfection. In a daze, I slip on the pleated skirt and blindingly white blouse, buttons done all the way up. Then I check myself in the full-length mirror—the one with the frame Benny and I spent hours working on, hot-gluing rocks we found down at the creek.

Ihatethe person in my reflection. The one who ran from difficult situations. The one who feared judgement.

I note the time and move to the kitchen to start on dinner, timing everything to the minute, if not second.

I’ve just put the chicken in the oven when the door bursts open and Holden appears. He’s been gone for hours, but he doesn’t even look my direction when he mumbles, “I’m going to shower real quick.”

I track him from the front door into the bathroom, waiting for the door to close before sucking in a breath, my eyes drifting shut when I release it slowly. Then I resume my task. I boil water for the pasta and take the mushrooms from the fridge. The bathroom door opens just as I’m dumping pasta into the pot, and a moment later, Holden emerges dressed in shorts and a white tank—his tattoo peeking above the neck hole. He stands in the middle of the living room, looking around. “Did you clean up?” he asks.

I drop my gaze, try to steady my hands as I slice the mushrooms. “Yes.”

Before he responds, there’s a knock on the door. His head snaps to the sound, and for a moment, he just stares at it. Finally, he takes the few steps to the door, opens it. “Mom,” he gasps, gaze flicking to me quickly before focusing on her again. “You can’t—”

“It’s okay,” I interrupt, wiping my hands on a dishcloth, and replace all twelve rings on my fingers. “I invited them.”

Holden’s eyes bug out of his head as he stands there, frozen, looking between his mom and me. Eventually, he opens the door wider, and I slowly move around the counter, my hands grasped in front of me.

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