Page 94 of Muddy Messy Love

I stare at her while my perfect new world crumbles before my eyes and my old one rises from the dead. “I can’t do this,” I whisper more to myself and the floor than her.

“Well, if you don’t like it, you can always leave.” I look up to see Mum smugly pointing to the front door.

I don’t like it. Not one bit. But I’m not leaving my home, even if it is temporary, or imposing on Cole or Jen. I can’t afford a hotel for months. And my studio’s here. But what’s more, Mum is struggling, and I want to be her daughter—not a monster. I should be here for her, at the very least. That’s what family does. But what if you’re poison to each other? When is enough, enough?

Ripped in two, my heart continues to war. Memories of Mum’s smile when I was little—when she was happy—appear again. She gave me life. I survived because of her. She endured the pain, the sleepless nights, every scraped knee and school drop-off. But somewhere along the line, things deteriorated. Dad…vanished, and I grew a personality. My malleability dissolved.

My shoulders slump in a defeated sigh. “We’ll make it work.”

I shut the door as Mum opens her mouth to speak. I don’t want to hear it. And if I look at her again, I risk seeing the scaredlittle girl behind her venom, and guilt will strangle me whole. That’s what our relationship is—a fillet of premium quality guilt, topped with mixed spite, and finished with a healthy dose of resentment on the side.

I need time to process, and I have work to do. Lots and lots of work. That will be my escape.

Eighteen

“This frown is becomingpermanent,” Cole says as we lie naked in his bed, our legs entangled. He rubs his thumb between my brows, easing the tension, but I continue to stare at his cedar-clad ceiling, lost.

This week has been hell.Mumhas been hell, and I can’t rid her from my thoughts for long. It’s like she has me in a psychic chokehold.

Cole strokes his fingertips up and down my arm. “I’d hate for the wind to change—you’d be stuck like that forever.”

His words penetrate the dark daze, causing a smile to prick my lips. I glance up at him. “My dad used to say that.”

His grin tilts. “So did my mum.”

It’s the first time he’s mentioned his mum unprompted, so I tread carefully. “Can you tell me about her?” I soften my voice, giving him an out if he needs it, but instead Cole shifts to his back with a sigh, tucking his technicolour arm under his head.

The white sheets twist low around his waist like they would a classical Greek statue, and his light-honey skin gleams as it hugs every chiselled muscle.

God, he’s gorgeous.

“My mum was beautiful,” he says, “and not only on the outside. Love radiated through her skin—through her smile—like she was filled with light. Her hips swayed whenever music played, and she would sing whenever a paintbrush touched her hand. There was a gentle strength about her. I was fifteen when she died, and after that”—Cole swallows as his eyes squeeze shut—“nothing was the same.”

Fifteen. That’s rough. At least when Dad…went, I wasn’t yet hormonal or lost in the throes of adolescence, and Beth had already left her teens.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, kneading his shoulder. When you rip the keystone from an arch, everything can crumble. Dad was my family’s keystone. Cole’s mum was likely theirs. I want to know more—every bend and break and bump in the path that led him here—but I won’t push. Instead, I sweep my fingers through his hair, press a kiss to his forehead, and whisper, “She sounds as incredible as her son.”

Sad eyes meet mine, staring intently. “You remind me of her, you know? You have that same light. It has to fight its way through sometimes, but it’s there—in your eyes, in your smile. Maybe it’s an artist thing.”

A rush of warmth floods my chest, and I can’t help but smile.

“Like now,” he says, brushing his thumb over my cheek, wearing a grin of his own. “You’re glowing.” He chuckles. “And now blushing too.”

I avert my gaze and will my cheeks to cool. “What was her name?”

“Charlene,” he rasps.

Charlene. Ella’s middle name. “That’s lovely.”

He folds me into his arms, tucking me against his chest, but while my heart aches for him, guilt gnaws at my insides too. Here he mourns his mother while I detest mine.

“You must hate how I treat my mum,” I say, circling his belly button with my finger, tracing the fine line of dark hair headed south.

A long silence falls, but Cole’s heartbeat remains steady beneath my ear. “On the contrary,” he says. “If this is Sheila’s MO, I’ve been wondering why you keep her in your life.”

I climb to my elbow with my brows in a twist. “She’s mymum.”

“And?”

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