Page 80 of His Every Move

Swoosh. The text was sent. I set the phone down and threw off the comforter. My cock was still rock hard and throbbing. We’d fucked three times last night, and I was still horny for him. Fuck.

Beyond the sex, last night went so much better than I had thought it would. Sure, I might have stuck a foot in my mouth by prematurely announcing my love for him, but thankfully, the stinging embarrassment only lasted a minute or two before Eli eased over the situation with his “boyfriend” proposal. I wasn’t upset that he couldn’t say it back, either. In fact, I respected Eli even more for being truthful. It’s what this relationship had to be built on. A foundation that would carry us together no matter what pressure or outside forces were exerted.

He gave me hope and optimism, two things I’d need in spades if I wanted to successfully complete that thirty-day program. It was an anxiety-inducing prospect. Even the idea of it made me want to open up the minifridge and see if they had any tiny bottles of vodka I could down. But that was exactly the point. I’d become dependent—addicted—to the numbness that alcohol brought with it. I’d fallen down the same black hole my mother fell into… Was she still falling?

Her struggle had been a long one. I didn’t understand it when I was younger. I took it personally. Felt as though if she couldn’t stop drinking for me, then I must not have meant enough to her. But knowing what I did now, it had nothing to do with anyone else. Alcoholism was a nasty disease with insidious claws that sunk deep into the victim before they could even realize it. It was a literal fucking toxin.

I didn’t know what got into me. Maybe I was still riding the high and thrill that came from making Eli mine last night. I grabbed my phone again, unlocked it, and went straight to my contacts. I tapped the M button and, without another thought, called my mom.

It started to ring, and my heart started to hammer. This was a mistake. She wasn’t going to answer. She probably didn’t even recognize my number. I should have done this sooner, should have reached out years ago. What if she needed my help? What if?—

“Hello?”

I sat in a brief moment of stunned silence. My mom’s voice. Shit. I hadn’t heard her in so long.

“Mom, it’s Benji.”

“Benji!” My mother’s voice came through the phone, slurred and disoriented. Guess that answered my questions about how she’d been doing with her drinking problem. A sting of disappointment hit me directly in the chest. I guess I’d been hoping a different version of my mother would pick up my call. “It’s been—God, how long? What’s wrong, sweetheart? Are you okay? Wait—hold on.” The clink of a glass bottle echoed through the phone. My heart sank even further. Flashes to being a kid and finding empty wine bottles all over the kitchen as I made my own breakfast before school, Mom passed out cold on the couch. She’d get angry when the noises of me getting ready for school would wake her.

“I was just—are you drunk right now? I can call back.”

She hesitated, her breathing turning ragged. “Don’t—don’t start. I’m fine. What’s wrong?” Her voice trembled like she’d shatter if I pressed any harder. The warmth I’d been hoping for turned bitter cold. This wasn’t how I imagined it—how I wanted it to be.

“Mom, listen. I called because…” I didn’t even know why, exactly. To reconnect? To forgive? To try to understand what my own recovery might look like? “I just needed to know if you were alright. I wanted to?—”

“I’m fine, Benji,” she cut in harshly. “I’m always fine.”

Her words pierced straight through me, an old wound reopened, blood still fresh. I’d heard this same tired refrain so many times before, and it hurt just as much now as it ever had. She was never truly fine, and her lying to herself only ever brought more pain and trauma.

But maybe I’d been coming at this wrong the entire time. I’d developed a thick shell to try and deflect some of the mental and verbal blows she’d give me. It had turned me cold toward her. What if warmth and understanding was all she needed? I could at least offer her that.

“You don’t have to pretend,” I said softly. “We both know?—”

She cut me off with a scoff. “You called to lecture me?” Her voice sharpened. “Don’t you have your own life now? Your own problems to worry about? Do you need money—is that what this is about?”

My chest tightened painfully. This wasn’t the conversation I’d hoped for, but it was the one I should have expected. “I don’t need money.”I need my mother.“But that doesn’t mean?—”

“I can handle myself, Benji. You’re not my parent. You’re mychild.” There was a silence, filled only with our strained breathing.

“Where, uh, where are you right now?” Damn. I didn’t even know where my own mother was. What state she was in, where she considered home. How had I allowed things to get this bad?

“I’m in Philly right now. Had an old friend out here. It’s been a rough couple of years, Benji. Can’t sugarcoat it for you.”

“I know, Mom. I know. I’ve been going through shit, too. Trying to fix myself now. I think maybe… I don’t know. I can check in with you more and push you to maybe do the same?”

“You mean, what, go to rehab?” My mom’s tone turned acidic.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

She huffed out a breath. “Look, I’ve gotta go. It was nice talking to you. Maybe call me again in another year.”

She hung up, leaving nothing but silence in her wake.

Silence and questions and regrets.

I should have reached out sooner. Should have been the bigger person and tried to bridge the distance that had grown between us.

But, well, I didn’t. I was too caught up in my own bullshit to realize how far away my own mother drifted. I hoped she wasn’t lost to the sea. This was only the start. I cracked open the door, now I just had to gently keep pushing it open.

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