Page 108 of Catcher's Lock
I can’t stop my gaze from following him, or admiring his ass in the silky shorts, and when I turn back to my mom, her expression has gone fond and amused enough to make me squirm for reasons beyond my sore backside.
“Why don’t we start with the easy stuff,” she says. “Tell me about you and Josha.”
Theeasystuff? Ha. And yet, in spite of everything, maybe it really is that simple.
“He’sJosha. He’s mine.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s always been true.” Shesmiles. “I want to hear about how you became his.”
I’ve always been his, too.
But that’s not what she’s asking.
“Did he ever tell you what happened the night I left?” I ask, pulling my hands from hers to pick at the peeling laminate along the table’s edge.
“Eventually. He said he kissed you. He felt horribly guilty about it.”
“Did he tell you I kissed him back?”
“No. Did you?”
“Oh yeah. And I almost let him…do a lot more.”
“But you didn’t?”
“No. I pushed him away. Literally.” I force myself to meet her eyes, bracing for censure, willing it to scour me clean enough to escape her purgatory.
“That must have been really hard.”
I blink.
NotWhy?NotHow could you do that to him?Not scathing condemnation, butcompassion.
Empathy.
And now the tears spill free as a weight I didn’t know I carried lifts from my wounded soul.
“I hurt him so badly. That wasn’t even close to the first time. You were right to tell me I didn’t deserve him.” Confession flows easily when met with understanding.
“Oh, honey. I never meant to make you feel unworthy of love. When I told you he deserved someone wide awake, I always hoped it could be you.” She reaches out to cup my cheek and brush at the tear tracks with a thumb. I let myself lean into the touch for a moment, then pull back to scrub a hand over my face.
“I guess it’s a good thing I woke the fuck up, then.”
“I guess it is.” Her smile is warm as sunshine, and she tilts her head, studying me as I pull myself together. “This new skin of yours, it looks good on you. You seem more comfortable in it than I’ve ever seen you before.”
Because Josha loves this skin.
To be fair—against all the odds—he loved the patchwork version too. The one made up of faults and flaws and messy fumbles. Butthisskin has tasted his—has opened up and let the man who loves it share space with all its dark and desperate innards.
This skin loves someone back, and that someone is calledus.
“We can talk about the hard stuff now,” I say.
“Why don’t I make us some coffee?”
She putters around Josha’s kitchen, at home in the space in a way that makes me ache with envy and missed opportunities, while I tell her about the AA meeting in Mendo and my hopeful plans to stay clean. I give up on the chair and join her at the counter by the time the coffee is ready to pour.
“Have you thought about going back to rehab?” she asks, gently, as she hands me my milky mug.
