Page 136 of Come Break My Heart Again

“I—too much has happened. Too much has changed. I wouldn’t even be asking for a second chance. We’re so far past that … it’s pointless.”

“Maybe,” my mom says. “Or maybe not giving it a chance, after everything, would be pointless.”

She lets me sit with that the whole drive back to the trailer. The nearest hospital is twenty minutes from Fernwood.

If the topic was less serious—less tragic—I’d be impressed by her success at totally turning our conversation around on me. I wasn’t supposed to be the one second-guessing.

My mom parks alongside the trailer, then glances over at me. “If I did treatment … that’s not how I want you boys to see me. To remember me.”

“That’s not how we would remember you, Mom.”

“It’s not what I want, Ryder.”

I literally bite my tongue, trying to keep more protests from coming out. “Okay.”

“Your father called a few days ago.”

When I say nothing, she sighs.

“You shouldn’t have told him.”

“Why?” I ask. “Because he’d come running to see you?”

Another sigh. This is an ancient argument between us. She’s always been quick to forgive my dad for his recurring disappearing act. So, I’ve held on to the resentment she let go of. Piled it on top of my own.

She climbs out of the car, so I do too.

“Do you need the car the rest of the day?”

My mom shakes her head, then tosses me the keys. “All yours.”

Tuck told me to take the rest of the day off, but I’m in the mood for manual labor. The screened porch is only halfway done, meaning there are still a lot of nails to pound.

“Thanks.”

She glances back, surprised, when I follow her toward the stairs. “You aren’t headed out?”

“In a minute. I need to grab something.”

She nods, heading straight into the kitchen when we walk inside. Without looking that way, I know she’s making a cup of her tea. It’s what she does now instead of smoking a cigarette.

I walk down the hallway to my bedroom. It’s so bare now, none of the stuff I threw out when I got home replaced. Blank walls. Bare furniture.

Digging through the closet takes me at least five minutes. I buried this box, trying to avoid temptation.

Not that it matters. I memorized every line of the letters Elle had sent me years ago.

I have to search once I find the box, too, in order to find the one letter I wrote to her in response. It’s at the very bottom, resting against the cardboard.

I stare at it, deliberating. Just like I’ve done ever since Elle told me I never cared last week.

There’s a lot I can handle.Easyisn’t an adjective I’d use to describe my life. There’s always been a lack ofsomething.

A father.

Money.

Freedom.

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