Page 63 of Bitter Truths

The preacher drones on, but I can’t hear him. Instead, my mother’s voice rolls through my head.

You’re disgusting. Keep your filthy hands off me.

You’re useless, just like your father.

Why can’t you just be calm?

I can’t breathe, Griffin. You’re stealing my air.

Her love for me was wrapped in hate and bound by conditions I could never meet. And Father, well, he never came home long enough to fucking care.

So why do I feel this yawning ache in my chest?

I’m your mother. You have to love me.

“You gave me nothing,” I murmur, and Father looks at me sideways.

Without a backward glance, I walk away, ignoring the mourners who look up with confusion.

Hathaways stand tall, Mother, and I’m saving my love for someone who knows the meaning of the fucking word.

“Griffin?”

When I glance up, I see Halsey’s parents, and I falter, the stoic facade cracking in the face of Mrs. Moore’s genuine concern.

She steps from the line and grabs my arm, leading me away, and I follow because I’m fucking lost. Mr. Moore trails behind, and soon I’m in the backseat of their car with Mrs. Moore beside me.

She clears her throat and lays her hand over mine. “Are you okay, Griffin?”

Am I? I don’t fucking know, but I could use a fucking friend right now.

Shaking my head, I grit my teeth against the burn in my eyes. I haven’t cried since I was eight and my damn dog died. Maybe because even now, with the woman in the fucking ground, I still can’t get the look of disgust out of my head.

Great, she’s going to haunt me from the grave now, too.

Hathaways don’t cry.

Fuck you, bitch.

“I’m sorry,” she says, squeezing my hand.

The warm touch makes me freeze, and bowing my head, I nod, refusing to meet her eyes. This is why I love her because even knowing I’m the piece of shit who ruined her daughter, she still has kindness inside of her.

I crave that kindness. I crave the look in her eyes when she strokes Halsey’s hair or taps Max’s nose. Even now, my skin tingles at her gesture of concern, and I want to clutch her hand and never let go.

I tried to be a better person for Halsey, for them, and I failed. Now I can’t even meet her gaze because I know what I’ll see if I do—disappointment and maybe even hurt.

Rubbing my forehead, I say quietly, “I should go.”

After a pause, she says, “Okay.”

“Son?”

I glance up at Mr. Moore, my chest clenching at his moniker. “It’ll be okay.”

“Okay,” I whisper before escaping into the rain.

And I ignore the wetness on my cheeks because it’s just the sky crying out in agony.

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