Page 10 of I Hear You

I’ve got about forty-five minutes to get the dishes done before Mom gets home. I turn on some music and get to work. As the last plate is going in the dishwasher, I hear the front door unlock. I wipe my hands on a dish towel and go to greet my mom.

She looks happier than she did this time last year, despite working all day at the hospital. I take the grocery bags from her hands and give her a kiss on the cheek.

“How was work?” I ask.

“Oh, the usual. How was Grissoms?”

I contemplate telling her about meeting Madison and giving her a ride to campus. I don’t because Mom will just ask a million questions. The questions will lead to her worrying. I can hear her now–Henderson, is now a good time for girls? It may jeopardize your future. And honey, you have such a bright future.

“Slow. I was gonna shower and then hang out at the barn.”

“Do you want dinner first? I bought stuff to make spaghetti!”

“Yum, yes, please!”

“Okay, you get cleaned up and I’ll get it started,” and before I can even make it out of the kitchen, I hear her add, “But promise me you will not drink tonight, not even one beer.”

“Mom,” I groan.

“Henderson, I mean it, you’re on probation and that means no getting into trouble.”

She doesn’t say it to scold me or in a harsh way. She says it with concern and worry in her eyes. I hold on to my mom's shoulders gently, making sure she’s looking me in the eye. She knows I wouldn’t risk it. She knows I don’t drink or do drugs. I wouldn't do anything to put us back in the spotlight.

“Mom, I know. I promise.” I kiss her cheek and head upstairs to shower.

When I get out of the shower, I pull on a clean pair of underwear, and lay on my bed on top of the blankets. I grab my phone off the nightstand and start scrolling through sports news. My phone vibrates in my hand as a text comes in.

Jesse: You inviting the hot chick from the bus stop tonight?

Me: No

Jesse: Boring. So can you pick up me and Tay in an hour?

Jesse: We’re at my place.

Me: Yup. I’ll be there.

Jesse: Bitchin.

Jesse says the weirdest shit. He doesn’t care about what slang is popular. He’s always using and coming up with the funniest words. It makes me realize, sometimes I care too much. I’ve always cared about being what others expect of me. It started when I was young. Dad would tell me I was going to be an NFL quarterback one day. Playing for the Ravens has been our shared dream for as long as I can remember. Or, at least, it used to be. He built up these dreams for me. I tried to take the path that made sense for someone who could achieve those dreams.

It’s probably why I have never once shared my passion for writing with anyone besides Mads. I miss that a lot. Having someone I could share those hidden parts of me with. I’ve barely written anything that wasn’t a school assignment since she stopped responding to me. It’s not that I was writing for her, but she gave me the confidence to write.

Getting up, I rummage through the basket of clean clothes at the end of my bed and pull out a pair of dark jeans and a gray henley. I put on the clothes and slip on my shoes. One of the best parts about Easton is, no matter how hot and humid it is during the day, the nights are cool and dry.

When I make it down to the kitchen, it smells incredible. Mom is just pulling a loaf of garlic bread out of the oven and there are already two plates filled with pasta on the kitchen counter. I take a seat and start digging in. We only ever eat in the kitchen at the breakfast bar or in the living room in front of the TV. Never in the dining room. At least since it’s been just the two of us.

Mom has been cooking more often and it makes me incredibly happy. Not only because she’s an amazing cook, but because I know she enjoys it. And seeing her do anything she enjoys these days is progress and proof that I did the right thing. It reinforces my knowledge that the consequences I’m suffering now are worth it. The best part is, if she doesn’t want to cook, she doesn’t. She does it only when the mood strikes her.

I finish dinner and rinse my plate before putting it in the sink. After saying goodbye to Mom and scratching between Potato’s ears, I head out to my truck.

I only live a few blocks from campus, which was one of the many reasons I decided to keep living at home instead of in the dorms or with friends. Being there for my mom was the biggest reason. Since my dad left, I’ve been both more and less worried about her in different ways. She seems to be doing so much better over the past few months. She’s smiling more, wearing makeup occasionally, and has even gone out to lunch with Emmett's mom a few times. Something she hadn’t–no, couldn’t–do over the past few years. Still, I just think it’s best I stick around a little longer. It’s the least I can do.

Jesse lives in the apartments across the street from campus. When I get there to pick him up, the parking lot is packed. I pull up to the curb on the street and fire off a text to him, letting him know where I’m at. I check the passenger floorboard to make sure there’s no trash or water bottles in the way for when they get in. That’s when I notice a folded up piece of paper. I reach over and grab it, not recognizing what it is. I open it and start reading and WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?

What is this? Why is it printed? Who printed it? Why is it in my car?

It’s a copy of an email I sent to Mads. But it’s not just any email. It’s the email I fired off from my phone while I sat in the cold and empty room at the police station. Where I sat with blood on my hands and my shirt. It’s the email I sent where I poured my whole damn heart out to her.

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