Page 95 of Our Hearts Knew Better

Go missing, not die.

The ache wakens me, attunes me to her needs, when, now, it’s more of an ache in me to get back to Summer’s needs.

There’s not a shine to her cheeks, but I know that wane of her voice and the faint way her lashes darken from tears she kept at her lids.

I shouldn’t have vowed I’d remove myself from her life if Floyd fucks up, because it’s another vow I’d have to break, but I needed her to trust that I took that chance for her, to restore her trust in her father through my formed bond and trust in him. And although I’m still confident he wants to fix their relationship, somethingdidhappen to bring Summer here and not keep her there, and my body is pulling from my mom’s grasp too soon in my pining to find out what it is.

My pining forusto not be pulled from each other again.

My pining for breath. My pining for motion. My pining for her.

Mom clings to me and I circle her back in with a tinge of guilt that tampers off as she says low at my ear, “I don’t want to see Adam get hurt over this. But I’ve seen you hurting over this for too long. Enough pain.”

She pulls back to look me in the eyes, hers widened and her mouth set on me choosing me, as I’m stunned to just staring back, my guilt slinking through me like slime for wanting my mom to say enough toherpain. Pain that tries to drag me down again every time I see it casting back from her, and I break the wrists of its clutches by repeating the word to myself.Enough.

Dad would agree. Enough pain. Enough staying down. He’d want her to grieve and let go too. He’d want us to hang onto each other in a way that doesn’t feel like an apology.

But I let that go, too, as Mom’s hands wring the sleeves of my shirt like a plea as she points me toward Summer, and I exhale a breath that parts my lips, shakes the corners of my mouth into a sort of smile.

Dishes clink and water runs and I’m drifting back to Summer with another question, now about her uneaten food, except the fingerprint in the ketchup.

“Not hungry?” I’ve had these pains, too, and I feel an emptiness in my gut for how often she can lose her appetite.

Her eyes flit a fast glance down to my hand, back on the bar next to hers. If she knew how much tension was running through my arm to keep from touching her. . .

“I’m fine.”

I’ve also heard that before, just recently, again, from her father. “Have you eaten today?”

“Are you gonna feed me to make sure I do?”

My hand glides closer to hers at everything I hear in that question. A challenge. Some frustration. Teasing. Enough gratitude to put more of a threat in me to, yes, make sure she eats.

She sees it in every tensed feature of my face, because she quickly assures me, “Yeah. I had an egg biscuit earlier.”

My hand moves more, a forced curve toward the plate, around her fingers, uncurled, the spaces between like an opportunity for mine to fill them. . .

That’s when I notice the box.

Floyd gave it to her like he promised me he would.

But she still has it taped.

I juggle the idea of masking like I don’t know what’s inside, but I don’t want to keep more from Summer than I already am, and nothing about her father. I helped reopen this door and I’m staying by her side.

My mouth’s open to saysomethingabout the box, when my mom is back by my side, my hand an unmanned retreat to take what she drops onto my palm most days I drop by.

Her skin is warm and damp from the sink water as she releases the four chocolate kisses one by one.

I hold that hopeful pain in her eyes as I prod the chocolates around with my thumb, the wrapper still as coarse as my throat as I muster up my dad’s words.

“Best part of the day.”

Today, it’s harder.

Today, I feel each jagged edge of those words that make my mom smile.

Because today, I have Summer to feel the way I feel with me.

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