Page 124 of Meet Me in the Valley
The alcohol flooding my system. The touch of a woman I didn’t want. The reckless choice I ultimately made that left me bleeding.
But I don’t let those soiled memories hurt me anymore. I lean into them, owning my actions and pushing through the pain.
It’s almost laughable how two things that can trigger my pain sit directly in front of me: my mother—and a fucking soft drink.
I take a long and steady breath, working through these emotions just like Charlotte taught me. I let the feelings come, and I let them pass within an exhale. My eyes lift from the drink to meet my mother’s.
These things don’t define me. I can overcome the pain. I can face it head on, and I won’t fall apart. I can do this.
I recognize what this really is as my mother’s gaze melts into mine with hope in her eyes. It’s a peace offering. A gesture to prove she still knows me, or wants to pretend that she does.
But we don’t know each other. Not anymore.
And I can admit without guilt that that’s perfectlyokay.
All I see when I look at her is the last conversation we had in Vegas. The yelling. The unraveling. The sting of every word. The anger still simmers just beneath my skin like a low burning fire. But the proverbial match I’ve always gripped when it came to my mother doesn’t feel so tempting anymore. For once, I don’t want to toss it onto the fire just to watch everything burn.
For that thought alone, I take another small step forward into something that might resemble a new beginning.
I accept the offering.
“Thank you.”
Taking a sip is my way of giving myself permission to feel however I need to with this woman. This stranger. This figure in my life who I never knew took up so much residence in my brain—hidden within the grooves, lying dormant until now.
Hope spreads across her face, but all I feel is indifference. I suppose that’s better than resentment.
Charlotte would be proud.
“Thank you for meeting me. I know we left things … tense … the last time we saw each other.”
Tensedoesn’t even scratch the surface.
I take a long gulp of Coke, letting the carbonation burn up my nose. The sweetness is almost sickening, but I swallow it down without flinching.
“Yeah,” is all I say.
“So, your father tells me you’re a big-shot architect now,” my mother says lightly. “I knew all those years of you doodling on anything and everything would be worth it.”
I keep my gaze fixed on my drink, slowly stirring the straw around, trying to fish out a piece of ice with a hole in it—something pointless to focus on so I don’t have to look at her.
Yes, I became a successful architect. With no support from you.
My jaw tenses. I catch the thought before it can fester, working through the mental checklist Charlotte gave me—reframe, release, breathe.
Chill. It’s not her fault. Not all of it.
When I don’t respond, she clears her throat awkwardly and tries to pivot.
“H-how is Tia doing? You two seem lovely togeth?—”
“Don’t say her name,” I snap, eyes shooting to hers, sharper than I mean them to be.
But the protectiveness is instant. Instinctive. She doesn’t get to speak about Tia. Not after what she did. She struck a nerve—and it hit deep.
I remember the look on Tia’s face in Vegas. How crushed she was when my mother confessed to taking Nora away. The betrayal. The disbelief.
Just hearing her say Tia’s name brings all of that fury back to the surface, and it’s taking everything in me not to let it boil over.
