Page 198 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“This is the last time I’m going to ask, but…” She blows out a stream of air. “No more contracts? No more expiration dates? We’re done with all that, right?”
Ah. That old chestnut. I cover her hand reassuringly.
“We’re done, Monroe. No more pretending this is temporary. This is real. Permanent. Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
* * *
Two Months Later
The phone vibrates against the kitchen counter. Unknown number. Normally I’d let it go, but something in the pit of my stomach twists and tells me to answer.
“Hello?”
There’s a pause, then a voice I haven’t heard in months. Raw. Thin. But unmistakable.
“Hunter.”
My chest tightens. Mom.
I glance toward the living room where Juliet is curled on the couch with her laptop, her feet tucked under her, hair spilling loose over her shoulder. Curious, she looks up, but I shake my head. She doesn’t press. She knows who it must be.
“Mom,” I say, the word sticking in my throat like glass.
“I only get ten minutes,” she rushes. Her voice is scratchy, like the cheap prison phone is chewing her words in half. “I—I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”
The words hang there, thin and brittle.
“You’re sorry,” I repeat flatly. “For what, exactly?”
She’s quiet for a beat. “For everything. The money, the contracts. For… for how I treated you. I wasn’t well.”
I rub a hand over my jaw, feeling the grind of my teeth. “You were well enough to sign my name on checks you cashed. Well enough to sell me out for interviews.”
“I thought I was protecting us.” Her breath shudders. “I thought if I could just keep you afloat, keep you visible?—”
“That doesn’t even make sense, Mom.”
“Well.”
Silence crackles on the line. I almost hang up. Then she says it fast, like she’s been building to this the whole time.
“Well?” I prompt.
She sounds tearful. “I need your help, Hunter. Please. The appeal hearing is next month. If you testify, if you say I never meant harm. If you just speak for me, they might reduce my sentence. I could be out. I could see you again.”
And there it is. The real reason. Not because she misses me. Not because she loves me. Because she wants something.
I lean against the counter and let out a long, rough sigh. “I should’ve known. You only ever call when you need something.”
“No. That’s not true?—”
“It’s exactly true. Every time. As a kid, when you needed me to cover for you with Silas. When you wanted me to keep Jett quiet. When you needed someone to haul your ass home after you disappeared for three days. Every time, you’ve wanted something. And I gave it, because I was too young and too stupid to know better.”
Her breathing goes ragged on the other end. “I’m your mother.”
