Page 96 of Before I Let Go

I retrieve the bottle of whiskey from my bag, grab two glasses from the bar, and meet her in the adjacent sitting room. She takes the couch and I sit in the armchair directly across.

“It’s strong,” I warn and pour a glass for her.

“I could use strong.” She takes a long draw of it and gasps, lightly bangs her chest. “You weren’t lying. Good, though. Tastes like pure gold.”

“It costs about that much. Slow down.” I take a more measured sip and nod. “This is the good stuff. You gotta savor.”

“Mama’s having the best time. I wouldn’t be surprised if she moves here after she retires.”

“The kids would love that.”

“So would I. I sometimes wonder if…” Yasmen shrugs. “I don’t know. If maybe I would have handled things better if she’d been around.”

I’m silent, processing that and giving her room to go on if she likes.

“With distance and the right medication,” she continues wryly, “I can appreciate how much I isolated myself then. How it only made things worse.”

I have a proven track record of saying the absolute wrong thing in situations like this, so instead I take another sip and remain silent.

“Do you mind if I ask how things have been going with Dr. Musa?” she asks.

“It’s good.” I set the glass on the side table and link my hands behind my head. “He’s good. He has a way of making me consider things I haven’t before.”

“Like what?”

“Man, where do I start? Like how I never came to terms with losing both my parents at such a young age. How it affected me. I don’t think I had the tools to deal with losing Byrd and Henry so close together that way.”

My laugh comes out, a breath of self-deprecation. “Who am I kidding? It probably wouldn’t have made a difference. I probably wouldn’t have handled it any better if they’d been years apart.”

“We did the best we could in extraordinary circumstances. At least that’s what Dr. Abrams says I should tell myself.” She takes another sip from her nearly empty glass. “She has this thing where she encourages me to be my own gentle observer.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means seeing myself clearly—good, bad, beautiful, ugly, faults, mistakes—acknowledging what I really think and feel, and not judging those emotions. Understanding myself. Not censoring it. Having compassion for myself.”

“I like the idea of you being gentle with yourself,” I reply, not looking up even when I feel her eyes land on me.

“It’s harder than you might think. Between the expectations society imposes on us, shit we inherit, and mom guilt, which is the worst, it can be hard.”

I lean back in the armchair and chance a sideways glance at her. “Can I askyousomething?”

She folds one leg beneath her, eyes both wary and open. “Sure.”

“You said something at Thanksgiving.” I reach for my drink and take a fortifying sip because I’m not sure I want to know the answer to my question, but I have to ask. It’s been bothering me ever since dinner that day. When she said it, I didn’t want to think too deeply about what shewasn’tsaying, but I’m learning not to ignore hard conversations. Hard feelings.

“What’d I say?” she asks, brows drawn together.

“You said you were grateful for the kids because you didn’t think you’d still be here if not for them.”

The words throb in the silence of the room. We could be the only two people on earth, it’s so quiet. Like we’re in a temporary time capsule, sealed from reality and the world beyond these walls.

“What did you mean by that?” I ask when she doesn’t answer right away.

“What do you think I meant?”

“Did you ever…” I pause before finishing the question in case her answer confirms my worst, most terrifying suspicions. “Did you ever think of hurting yourself?”

“Hurting myself?” Her brows lift, nostrils flaring with a sharply drawn breath. “If we’re having this conversation, ask me what you really want to know, Si.”

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