Page 74 of The Vineyard Crush

My molars ground together hard enough to shatter granite as I struggled to corral the maelstrom of emotions roiling through me. How to start unpacking this entire mess of willful denial and dashed expectations?

Closing my eyes, I sucked in a steadying breath through my nose, focusing on the distant thrum of music and laughter as a grounding anchor. When my lids slid open again, my mother’s prim features had blurred into an expression of thin-lipped impatience. “You can’t be serious about Jayesh! He is entitled and controlling. We haven’t even known each other for a day and he already is telling me I should be more ambitions, and not asking, telling me that I’ll be the COO after marriage and not play chemistry like a 10th grader!”

She shrugs “So what he’s right, you should be more ambitious and do something serious in your life.”

“I get it, Mom,” I started in a low, controlled tone. “I understand you had all these grandiose dreams for Leo, Ethan, and me from the moment we were born. That you wanted your children to be wealthy and successful, to stand as pillars of ambition and material accomplishment for all to envy and admire.”

Her chin notched higher, but she remained utterly silent—watching, waiting for whatever objection or excuse would surely follow. I refused to take the bait, pressing onward with measured cadence.

“But I can’t be Leo, just like he can’t be me. We’re different people, with different strengths, different paths. And that’s okay.” My hands opened in a pleading gesture, as if to physically soften the blows that were still to come. “You’ve worked so hard to avoid this truth, but I have ADHD. It’s a core part of who I am—not some…some deficiency I can simply wish away, no matter how badly you might want that.”

Her mouth tightened into a cramped rictus of distaste, as if I’d lapsed into profanity. My own frustration bubbled upward, scalding the insides of my arms and throat.

“But even if I didn’t have ADHD, even if I was perfectly, 100% neurotypical, why is it so goddamn difficult for you to accept that I’m my own person? That I can’t simply shape myself into the glossy, ambitious trophy who has it all together!”

The sweeping arc of my arms seemed to cleave the very air as the vitriolic words spilled forth in a torrent. “This thing with Jayesh? It’s never going to happen. Not in any reality, Mom.”

I wheezed against the conflagration raging through my chest, twin spots of fury-blazed color scorching my cheeks. “Did you actually listen to a single xenophobic word out of that misogynistic douchebag’s mouth tonight?”

Trembling with disgust, I stabbed an accusing finger toward the nearby room Jayesh had so recently vacated—that den of antiquated toxicity now thankfully abandoned. “He’s just like you, Mom. So assured of his own delusional standards and expectations that anyone diverging from that narrow-minded path must be inherently flawed or inferior.”

The scalding syllables kept pouring out in a blistering deluge as I fought to catch my breath, ribcage straining against the seething waves of revulsion and hurt crashing through me. But my mother’s sleek, imperious facade remained frozen in its typical unreadable haughtiness—that flat, aristocratic blankness proclaiming her refusal to truly hear me.

With a ragged sound that could have been bitter laughter or a wounded, keening whine, I shook my head, numb resignation seeping into the hollows where my fight had guttered out like a snuffed wick.

“You’re never going to understand, are you?” My fingers found thorny purchase in my disheveled hair as I pivoted away, suddenly unable to so much as look at that polished, pampered visage anymore. “No matter how I try to explain it, no matter which angle…You will always want me to be something I am not.”

My rubbery legs carried me only a few wobbling strides before my back collided with the blessed solidity of the outer hallway’s stone surface. I slid gracelessly down the rough-hewn planes, crumpling in a crumpled, boneless heap as the first wrenching sob tore free of my core.

Why? Why did that visceral longing to be seen and accepted—to be truly loved as I was—still linger with such desperate tenacity after all these years? Shouldn’t the scars and wounds have scabbed over and healed by now? Shouldn’t I have become inured to this specific, annihilating brand of maternal rejection?

Heavy footfalls and the rumbling baritone of a familiar drawl reached me through the keening wail of my desolation. “Em? Darlin’, you out here?”

I barely registered the solid warmth of Ridge’s broad arm encircling my waist before he hauled me against the vast expanse of his chest. The heady, masculine amalgam of woodsmoke, worn leather, and sheer virility enveloped me in the fortifying sanctuary I’d come to crave with every molecule.

“Easy now, little flower.” The worry carved canyons into the craggy terrain of his beloved face as he ducked his head, snagging my chin between ruggedly callused fingertips. Storm-tossed green eyes swam with tender concern as they frantically mapped my features. “You’re okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Ridge cradled me against the reassuring wall of his chest, his palm sketching soothing circles over the taut knots of my shoulders. Salty tracks of anguish carved glistening rivulets down my cheeks as I struggled to leash the wildfire of emotions raging just beneath the surface.

Gradually, the tsunami of sobs subsided to a mere undertow of hiccuping gasps and sniffles. Leaning back, I swiped the heel of my hand across my blotchy, swollen face and offered him a tremulous, watery smile—an apology and benediction all in one.

A rueful chuckle rumbled up from the depths of Ridge’s broad chest. With infinite tenderness, he brushed away the remnants of my breakdown, the rasp of calloused thumbpads smearing moisture and errant tendrils of hair alike.

“There’s my girl,” he murmured, a world of sympathy and steadfast love contained in those molten green depths. Cupping my face between his palms, Ridge leaned in to dust whisper-soft kisses over each tear-stung cheek—a benediction of his own.

“Hey now, you wanna tell me what’s got my little flower so sadlike?” His sandpaper rasp wrapped around the endearment with layers of gruff affection.

A tremulous noise hitched in my throat as I burrowed deeper into the sanctuary of his broad chest. His arms tightened in instant response, that solid wall of muscle and sinew banding around me like a haven amidst the crashing waves of my distress.

“I…” The words emerged in a hiccuping sob as I clutched at the sturdy planes of his back, wishing I could simply meld into his unwavering strength. “Why can’t I…why do I still want her approval so badly? Still crave her acceptance, even after all this time?”

The dam shattered completely, hot brine spilling over my lashes in fresh torrents as the pain lanced through me anew. “Why does it still hurt so damn much when she’ll n-never…?”

A helpless, wounded sound tore free—an animal keen of abject desolation. My fingers knotted in the soft fabric of Ridge’s flannel, fisting the material in a white-knuckled grip as I shook against the cataclysmic force of my anguish.

Ridge exhaled a low, textured rumble, the baritone reverberation sinking into my bones in a full-body caress. His jaw dropped atop my crown as one broad palm stroked a languid path up and down my arched spine in soothing sweeps.

“Because she’s your mom, darlin’,” he rasped at last, with all the gentle compassion of a man who understood this particular trauma intimately. “For better or worse, she’s always gonna mean everything to you.”

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