Page 37 of Break Your Fall

If Reyna figured she’s my favorite because of my feelings for her, thenwhy am I her favorite?

11

It’s a Start, Part Two

Reyna

I feel the rumble of an impending rainfall as I kick the gravel on the road under my sandals, my own skies not as gray. Clouds roll in over the stars, my own clouds cleared from my head. I’m gliding along with a less heavy heart, letting the light from the street lamps guide my way. I hold to this floaty feeling, making it last as long as I can, because soon my thoughts will cast a shadow, the life I’m walking back to will cast a shadow, forcing me to face the truth.

The first sprinkles patter my skin as my eyes land on my mother’s car in the driveway, the darkened house—the shadow. I’m suddenly weighted to the ground, my glide now a lumber as I make my way to the front door.

I am a storm. And I’ve left destruction in my wake.

I jump, my hand flying to my chest when I see her shape at the kitchen table from the faint glow outside. I exhale my held breath with a groan. “Way to be creepy, Mom,” I comment as I feel for the light switch.

“Leave the light off.”

I flick the light on and she winces at the brightness. I guess my mother is more vampire than witch. The glass in front of her probably contains more blood than wine. I wait for her to catch fire and combust into tiny little pieces.

“What are you doing?”Besides getting plastered at the kitchen table.The glass is slanted in her hand.

“Being creepy,” she smarts before taking a gulp, then clinking the glass back to the table. “I’m waiting for an apology from you for trying to sabotage my date.”

Right. Valerie Stokes doesn’t wait up for her daughter, even after telling her we’d all be better off if she were dead. Valerie Stokes drowns in self-pity and alcohol and waits up for apologies she doesn’t deserve instead of giving them herself.

I’m proud of myself for not expecting her to check on me, for not thinking to ask. Baby steps still move you forward.

“Did it work?”

Her smile is lazy, but pleased. “Nope. Aspen’s not easily turned off.”

“Then why should I apologize?” I say instead of making a joke of her words. “He still needs to know what he’s getting into.”

“He does.” Her eyes pin to mine in annoyance. “Of course, the picture I painted ofyouis much different than the one you showed him. But I guess it was more accurate, huh?” She looks at me with such disdain over the rim of her glass as she takes a sip that I hope she chokes on it. Even sitting in a chair, under my nose, guzzling wine like it’s water, my mother still manages to look down on me.

I become a copy-cat as I step closer—her attitude, her look, her tone, all reflected in my own. “Was that before or after you told me I never should’ve been born?” Mom holds the glass up to her face and stares at the liquid inside with hazy, tired eyes. “If anyone deserves an apology, it’s me,” I press.

“Of course I feel bad about that,” she says to me with a face, snapping out of her reverie. “You know I didn’t mean it.” She waves her glass-filled hand and some wine splashes onto the table. “And I’m sure you didn’t mean to act the way you did.”

“I meant all of it,” I say on a whisper, and she shifts, squinting up at me with pursed lips. “And I’m not gonnapretendlike I feel bad.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Reyna, I’m notpretending.” She spits the word and I snap in two. If I have to weather her storm, she has to weather mine.

“You told me I was almostabortedand that my life doesn’t matter. You said you’d be better off!”

“And I didn’t mean it.” Mom stresses every word so well you would think she was stone-cold sober. But she’s had years of practice. She glares up at me through her lashes, then in a blink, she’s relaxed against the chair and twirling the glass. “Youwerealmost aborted, though. And shouldn’t it matter that I changed my mind?”

A sting hits my nose, my eyes. “What you say matters, too.”

Mom hums around a sip before she swallows. “That’s where you’re wrong. Words don’t always matter. They don’t have to.” She points her pinky finger. “Yougive them that power.Youneed a thicker skin.”

I needmyselfback—but a sturdier self. I need to be the girl who believes the best in people, but no longer accepts the worst. The girl who gives, but sticks to her conditions.

And I start here—my hands wrapping around the back of the chair closest to her as I lean down, her hand bringing that stupid glass back to her lips.

“I could’ve died tonight because of what you said. So, don’t you dare think that what you say to me doesn’t matter.” Her hand pauses the glass once it touches her lips, a small hesitation before she takes a swallow. “You’re my mother. You’re supposed to love me,protectme, not use your words against me. Or doshitlike this.” I motion to the wine as she takes another, longer pull. “Everythingmy mothersays gets inside my head, and I can’t help it, I can’t stop it, and it hurts.” Tears pool, that pain cracking my voice, a noose around my neck. “Your words are all I have. They’re what I come home to.”

Clink.“What do you wanna do? Punish me? Tell me how much I’m ruining you?” She drags her stare to mine and raises the glass again as she says, “Join the club, missy,” then drains it.Clink.

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