Page 152 of Hell Breaks Loose

Her pet name for me. Because I couldn’t say the ‘-llena’ part of my name right when I was learning to talk. It’s amazing the things you forget.

“There you are. It’s alright. I had a panic attack on the drive over here.” I set my bag down on the chair, looking around her apartment. It’s cute. Cozy.

“Any chance we can just skip the awkward parts of this?” She gives me a sheepish smile.

I can see what Sing means, though. She’s a little shaky.

Trying to act normal.

Well, if she wants normal…

“So you want me to put on some tea? Or pretend like I didn’t think you were dead for months? Ooh! Or we could pretend that I didn’t leave you married to a criminal to run away to a town run by a secret society and feel responsible for your death when he told me?”

Too much. Fucking smartass!

“No! I want a fucking hug!” Cynthia drops her shoulders, her fists striking her thighs lightly.

“Oh.” All my sarcastic bluster dies.

Before I can second-guess myself, I cross to her, folding the smaller woman in my arms. Hers loop around me, drawing me close. Like only mom’s hugs can. And it feels too damn good.

Fuck you, tears.

Nope. I’m not gonna bawl like a five-year-old.

No, apparently, we both are.

A very healthy and totally ugly cry later, we’re sitting at the table, drinking tea. Go figure. My mother always hated serving tea for Marco’s guests. But she always did it.

“It’s different when it’s your friends, your family,” she says shakily, her hands trembling.

“When everything isn’t about power and what he wants?” I smile sadly, resting my hand halfway across the surface to reassure her.

I’m here. It’s alright, Mom.

Cynthia nods. There’s way too much history to cover. Like in every sentence, every word. The duality is sewn throughout our entire conversation as we catch up, both of us avoiding certain topics, triggering themes.

Honestly, it’s going pretty well, if not a little frustrating.

Not that I’m not used to doublespeak, hidden meanings, and constantly maneuvering through a minefield of social manipulations. Not after spending so much time being someone I’m not to survive.

That’s how I grew up, too.

How Mom lived for two decades.

But dammit, I’m sick of it. I miss the brutal honesty and openness of my real life with Gavin and Tell and Evan.

So eventually, I circle back to the elephant in the room.

“Sanctum is a wreck right now.”

“You said he found you… but you’re alright? Sing said everything was fine?—”

“He’s dead.” I may as well have thrown a grenade in the middle of the table.

Cynthia flinches at the words, her lips quivering.

“Mom?”

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