Page 33 of Love to Hate You

I park in front of the house and jog up the stairs. I don’t bother ringing the bell and just slip inside. The door closes and silence echoes throughout the first floor. It’s as quiet as a tomb, reminding me there was never much laughter or joy while growing up in this house.

Nothing has changed in that regard.

I find Mom in the kitchen preparing dinner.

Her face lights up with pleasure the moment she sees me. “Carter! You didn’t mention that you would be stopping by.”

She comes around the massive marble island and wraps her slender arms around me, squeezing like she’ll never let go. I press her tightly against me. We’re like two survivors clinging to one another during a storm. Even though neither of us acknowledge it, we both know why I don’t give advanced warning as to when I’m going to visit.

“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision,” I say, just like I always do. “Thought I’d see how you were doing.”

As much as I hate coming here, I like to see for myself that she’s okay. It’s the reason I stayed close by for college.

“I’m good.” She smiles brightly.

Sometimes I marvel at how she does it. How she manages to act like there’s nothing wrong, as if her life is perfect. It’s mind boggling.

As we separate from one another, my gaze rakes over her. Mom looks like she’s dropped a few more pounds since I last saw her. She stands a few inches above five feet and has always been on the petite side. But now she looks frail. Delicate. Her dark hair is pulled back into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her makeup is flawless. She’s wearing a summery dress with short sleeves, and her feet are bare. Even though she looks like she could walk out the door any moment, I know she’s not going anywhere. Dad expects her to look and dress a certain way. Even when she’s at home.

I gnash my teeth together.

Dad’s a total control freak. He always has been.

I’ve escaped. Sort of. Even though I’ve encouraged Mom to leave, I doubt she ever will. I don’t know how she deals with his constant bullshit. By the time I walked out the door at eighteen, I promised myself that I would never go back. And other than to check on my mother, I haven’t.

Her bottle green eyes settle on me as she continues prepping the steaks on the counter. “Would you like to join us for dinner?” she asks with a hopeful note in her voice even though she knows it’s a bad idea.

I shake my head. “Sorry, I can’t. I just finished up with practice and have a paper due at the end of the week.”

It’s not a lie. It is due on Friday, but it’s practically finished. I just need to add the bibliography.

Disappointment flashes in her eyes.

Wanting to make it up to her, I say, “What about lunch next week? You can come to BU, and we’ll find a restaurant near campus.”

Her face lights up and slowly falls as her mind immediately goes to what Dad will say. She’s wondering if he’ll allow her to meet me for lunch.

I clench my hands as the urge to punch something careens through me.

Her shoulders droop, and she drops her gaze to the steaks as she salts and peppers them. “Let me check my calendar and get back to you.”

That’s code for I’ll ask your father for permission to leave the premises.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to snap that she’s a grown woman and doesn’t need his consent. But I don’t. Somehow, I manage to rein it in. She’s the last person I want to explode on.

It’s a frustrating situation. I love Mom more than anything, but this behavior and the way Dad’s trained her…it’s difficult to watch.

And even more difficult to stomach.

Once my emotions are locked down tight, I shrug as if it’s no big deal. “Let me know what you decide.”

The corners of her lips lift. “I’ll do that.”

As soon as those words are out of her mouth, the garage door opens. Her body goes on high alert as her breath catches.

“It’s fine, Mom,” I say soothingly through gritted teeth.

She nods, but her eyes dart around the spacious kitchen with its endless sea of white marble counters and stainless-steel appliances, checking to make sure nothing is out of place. Even though she’s in the middle of preparing dinner, everything is perfect and clean. Wiped down and polished. As soon as she uses a spice, it’s put away in the cabinet. As soon as she’s finished with a dish or pan, it’s washed and set back on its shelf.

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