Page 60 of Motivating Mira
“Anyway, the other reason I popped over here is to tell you, we just moved your mom from recovery to Room 512. You can head on up whenever you’re ready.”
“Oh perfect!” I gathered my stuff, putting it all in my book bag with a big smile on my face. But when I stood and started for the door, the smile slid off my face in an instant.
“Mira.”
“Hi.” My heart pounded and my head felt light. Was it possible he’d grown more handsome in just a few weeks?
He looked over his shoulder at the hallway. “I was just walking by and heard your name.”
“Oh.”
“You good? Your mom?”
I hugged my bag to my chest, my gut churning. “Yeah, we’re good.” Guilt flooded me. “Well, no, Mom’s not great but they just put a stent in, so she’ll hopefully be able to eat.”
His eyes, so filled with concern, held mine as I rambled on.
“She’s in hospice now,” I said, hating myself because I couldn’t stop talking. And worse, longing for one of his hugs.
Stop this, I growled inaudibly and straightened. “Well anyway, she’s out of recovery now, so I gotta go.” I moved toward the door, even though every step that brought me closer also made my heart pound harder. And when I passed him, and his scent hit, I had to grit my teeth and force myself to keep moving.
“Have a good day,” I said, sounding cheerful even though I was suffocating being near him and not touching him.
“Hm. Yeah, you too.”
I had a running mantra of “don’t look back” going the whole time I walked away, at least until I turned the corner and saw him in my peripheral, still there, still watching me.
I thought I’d made it. I thought I was in the clear, but then I heard him call my name, and his rushed footfalls as he tried to catch up to me.
I stopped, not because I wanted to, but because with his much longer legs it was inevitable. Okay, maybe because I wanted to breathe in his scent again, just one more time so I could commit it to memory.
“Mira, please stop shutting me out. Stop avoiding me.”
I swallowed hard, looking down at his red chuck T’s and pressing the smile from my mouth at them.
“This is my fault. I know. I asked for that night, not the other way around. And I’m awful for changing my mind. I know you thought it went well, but the truth is, it was fun, yeah, but do I need it? No, not at all. I guess I just needed to prove that to myself. BDSM is rooted deeply in some people, but I guess it wasjust a phase for me.” My eyes slid up until they landed on his. I was a damn liar. The biggest liar on the planet.
“Bullshit, Mira. You needed it that night. You needed to let me take over, make the decisions for a while. You needed it like you need oxygen. And you still need it.”
Anger grew in me, not because he doubted my words but because he was right and we both knew it. And because the next words out of my mouth would be a mind fuck for him. One he didn’t deserve.
“Ever think this isn’t about me, Wes? And maybe, just maybe, this is about you? You needing to be needed. When your brother died and no longer needed you, you started looking after Jesse, and then Beth and Marni. And when Beth died, you inserted yourself into Marni and Jesse’s lives. How are they getting along by the way? Maybe they’re actually doing better than you let on, and that’s why you sought me out?” I spun on my heel and walked away, my heart in my gut and self-hatred beating in its place.
“Maybe you need to stop figuring out other people’s shit and fix your own, Wes,” I spat over my shoulder. And then shame filled me as the brutality of my words sunk in. Maybe I was cruel for being so blunt to the man who’d done so much for me, but I also knew he needed to hear it.
Twelve
Wes
I stood there way too long watching the ghost she left in her wake. Her words haunted me as much as the image of her saying them did.
Was she right? I swallowed hard, turning to lean against the cool, painted brick wall. She might be, and that’s the reason, the only reason, I wasn’t chasing her down, and forcing her to admit she was lying and face her innate submissive needs.
Since the day of my older brother’s accident, I’d been needed. And since my parents and older siblings were too busy with their own lives to do anything to help him, I’d become his everything. Before then, I was a menopause kid who’d spent most of his time with nannies. But being needed by him, I’d felt seen. I’d felt wanted. I’d felt like someone.
Jesus. I slid down the wall, sitting my ass on the floor.
Did my whole personality stem from this? My sense of social justice, my moral compass, my values? Did it all stem from my hatred of a family who’d abandoned my disabled brother. Did my entire lifespan’s purpose boil down to this childhood tragedy?
