Page 45 of Need You to Choose Me

Her mood shifts. “A commercial?” she asks.

I nod. “They’re going to start playing it at the end of summer. I’m sure you’ll see it. They also did some photos for an online ad campaign. Don’t get me started on what they made me do for that.”

There was makeup. Fuckingmakeup. I don’t give a shit who wears the stuff, but I didn’t want any on my face. I felt like I was somebody’s doll being dressed up.

Mom’s eyes soften. “Oh, Alex. That’s so fun. Did you hear that, Ed? My famous boy is going to be on television!”

I turn to see who she’s talking to. At the table over is an older man reading a newspaper. He waves her off, not seeming to care. Can’t say I blame the guy.

“I’m not famous,” I tell her quietly. “And it’s just a commercial. Not a TV show or anything. But it’s good for us. And my agent said he’s working on a few other sponsorships.”

“You’ve always worked so hard,” she praises, reaching out and brushing my hand. “So much like your daddy.”

It’s rare she mentions him without an insult thrown in, so I don’t complain. I also don’t pay any attention to it. I simply tuck it away in the back of my mind so she can’t take it back. “The captain of our team is having people over to his place later this week. You should see it. It’s massive. Three times the size as our home back in Lindon. I’ve only been there once before and couldn’t believe the view.”

The good mood she was in fades as quickly as it appeared. “I would be able to see it if you let me leave. But you’re keeping me here like some sort of prisoner. Don’t you miss me?”

My teeth grind. “You know I do. But I see you every chance I can, and we talk on the phone all the time. They give you great food and a lot of stuff to do. Trust me. This place is far from a prison.”

Her arms cross. “You’re just saying that to make yourself feel better for sticking me here. Admit it, Alex. The only reason I’m sitting here is because you don’t want to be responsible for me anymore.”

Ice coats my heart. “That’s so far from the truth and you know it.”

She won’t look at me.

“Everything I do,” I tell her slowly, “is because of you. I’m working my ass off to make sure you get the care you need. You’re sick, Ma. They can help you better than I can. It’s not permanent.”

“I want to go home,” she tells me, her voice quieter—more fragile. “This isn’t my home, Alex.”

It’s hard to swallow when I see her eyes dull to a shade even dimmer than the last. “Have you talked during your therapy sessions? Maybe they could help you feel better. I can make time and come too, if that would help. But if you want to go home, you’re going to need to put in the effort. Okay? Can you do that for me?”

She frowns. “But I don’t like talking to these people. My business is none of theirs.”

“It’s their job,” I remind her. “That’s why they’re here.”

Her eyes remain on something at the opposite end of the room, evading me entirely. Fine. If that’s how she wants to play, I’ll play.

“I guess I’ll do this crossword myself then.” I grab it and open it to the first page, taking the pencil from the center of the table and tapping the chewed eraser against the paper. “Hmm. Number sixty-eight. Four across. Third letter is Y. Brighter times.”

My eyes peek up at the woman doing her best to ignore me.

But I see it. The interest.

After a few silent minutes, she says, “Days.”

I write it in. “Huh. It fits.”

She finally turns to me. “Give me another.”

We spend the next forty minutes going back and forth until the first puzzle is complete.

I don’t bring up therapy again.

Neither does she.

She keeps the book.

Pam calls a few days later and says she hasn’t put it down.

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