Page 151 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Another reporter raises her hand. “Why would Mrs. Huxley lie? What could she hope to gain?”
God, I wish I knew. I wish I had just paid my mom off before she went to a reporter with these crazy lies.
“I think the public should question why someone keeps seeking attention with stories designed to hurt her own children,” she says smoothly. “Especially someone with a documented history of exploiting those children for personal gain.”
She never names Darla directly. But the implication is razor sharp.
“Mental health struggles are real and serious,” Juliet continues. “And sometimes they manifest as a need to control or damage the people closest to them. The Huxley brothers have shown nothing but grace and maturity in removing themselves from a toxic situation.”
She spins the narrative so tight it can’t unravel. Suddenly, Juliet has turned the spotlight onto Darla’s instability, her history, her choices. And somehow, she makes the entire mess look like a mother lashing out, not a son unraveling.
For the second time in twenty minutes, I’m completely floored.
I watch the press conference in total disbelief. I can’t believe Juliet did that for me. That she would put herself on the line like that, risk her own reputation to protect mine.
When I get home, I lose it.
I lock myself in the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed, chest heaving, vision swimming. My fists hurt from clenching them. I want to break something, scream, hide, do something with all this rage and shame and grief that’s eating me alive.
None of it would help.
The voices in my head are loud tonight. Darla’s voice telling me I’m just like my father. My voice agreeing with her. The reporters’ voices, asking if there’s truth to the allegations.
All of them echo the same truth. I can’t trust anyone. Not even Juliet. This won’t last. She’ll leave too once she realizes what kind of person she’s really dealing with.
There’s a soft knock on the door.
“Hunter?” Juliet’s voice is gentle but firm. “Let me in.”
I stay quiet. Silent. Because what would I even say? How do I explain that my mother is trying to destroy me? How do I tell her that maybe Darla is right, maybe I am too damaged to be worth saving?
I hear a soft clink. A pause. Then the door clicks open.
She picked the lock with a butter knife. Of course she did.
“That’s illegal, you know,” I say without looking up.
“Sue me.”
She walks in like it’s nothing. Pretending that I’m not falling apart. She doesn’t say a word; she just climbs into bed beside me and curls into my side like she belongs there.
Her hand finds my hair, stroking gently. The touch is so soft, so careful, that it almost breaks me all over again.
“You’re not alone,” she whispers. “I’m here. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended. “None of this is okay.”
“No,” she agrees. “It’s not. But you’re not alone.”
I don’t deserve her. It’s something I know with absolute certainty. Grief, rage, and shame have twisted me, making me too broken and dangerous. I’m too much like my father, no matter how hard I try not to be.
“Why did you do that? The press conference. You didn’t have to.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Juliet.”
“What?” She pulls back to look at me. “You think I was going to let her destroy you? Let her spread lies about who you are?”
