Page 78 of Hate You, Maybe
“Hey, baby. Are you awake?”
I press a hand to my chest, where my heart’s still throbbing beneath my breastbone. “If I’d been asleep,” I say on a sigh, “I wouldn’t be talking to you.” My tone’s a little sharp. But as usual, my mother’s timing couldn't have been worse. “It’s kind of late for a chat. Is everything all right?”
“Oh, no, baby,” she chokes. “Everything is not all right.” Sniffling noises come from her end, and my shoulders go slack.
Sayla From Before knows this pattern all too well.
“What’s going on, Mom?”
“It’s Eugene,” she wails.
“What about Eugene?”
Here it comes.
“The wedding is off.”
Of course it is.
Dexter waves to get my attention, motioning toward the porch, starting for the door. The man wants to give me privacy—rule five of our cabin—but I can only slump in defeat.
My mother’s sobs are a bucket of ice water toppling over me, dousing every flame Dexter Michaels just ignited. I’ve been here so many times before. Honestly, I don’t care if he hears this conversation. Even as I think this, though, a spear of guilt pierces my chest. My mom can’t help who she is. If she could, she’d never put herself through the pain.
At least I hope she wouldn’t.
“What happened?” I finally ask, combating the urge to addthis time. Meanwhile, my brain runs through a list of Mom’s Breakups Past. I’m tempted to place a bet on which category will fit this one with Eugene: His adult kidsconvinced him she’s a gold digger. Or the restaurant owner found out and threatened their jobs. Or one of them got fired. Or he fell in love with someone else. Or she discovered he’s already married.
“He’s just being so unreasonable,” she blubbers.
“About what?”
“He refuses to have our wedding on Christmas,” she sniffles. “He claims he doesn’t want his friends and family to be put out. As if marryingmeis an inconvenience.”
“Wait.” I collapse onto my bed. “So Eugenedoeswant to marry you. Just not on December 25th?”
“Or any holiday,” she huffs. “He kept going on and on about how his cousin planned his ceremony for New Year’s Eve two decades ago, and the guests are still resentful.”
I blow out a long breath. “So that’s it, then? You’re the one who called off the wedding? Not Eugene?”
“I’m clearly not a priority to him,” she says. “And I can’t marry someone who isn’t ready to make my wildest dreams come true. If Genie loved me enough, he’d gladly make me his wife any day of the year.”
“Oh, Mom.” I sigh. “Is it possible you’re the one getting cold feet?”
“Absolutely not. Why would you even ask that?”
“Sometimes … I feel like … maybe …yousabotage your relationships.”
Like a good fifty percent of the time,I think.
There’s a stretch of silence. “I love Eugene,” she says. “I’m just not sure he’s the one.”
“Because of Christmas?”
“Because of what Christmas represents,” she bawls.
“Okay, Mom.” I shake my head. “Can we talk more about this in the morning? It’s late. And I’m … exhausted.” This is what I say, but the truth is, I can’t listen to her anymore. I’ve heard all the stories so many times. And if she hadn’t uprooted me over and over again to suit every casual whim—let alone the serious heartbreaks—I might almost find her predictability amusing. But my capacity for compassion got drained over the years. My tank is empty right now. My mother is still the same self-centered, reckless person she’s always been.
She’s also my mom, though. And I love her anyway.
