Page 29 of Bring Me To My Knees

“Why?” I ask, trying to internally calm myself down.

“She just seems skittish. It’s almost as if she’s hiding something. I think she’s trying to avoid dealing with her feelings about being back home.” He sighs, sitting down on the couch I’ve got in the corner of my room.

I’ve got to stop fucking with his sister.

“I’m sure it’s hard for her. Spencer and Claire sent her off so fast she barely had time to come to terms with what happened to Mallory,” I tell him, walking over to sit next to him.

“I’m so sick of the aftermath that comes with Claire and Spencer fucking us up. It’s exhausting to keep dealing with the trauma they’ve left us with. Do you think that’s why Mal thought the only way out was to kill herself?” He leans back against the couch, closing his eyes.

He’s never asked me my thoughts on Mallory killing herself. It’s kind of been an unspoken thing between the two of us that we just don’t bring it up. To be honest, I’m not sure he’s fully dealt with her death either.

“I don’t know if you’ll ever get the answers to those questions, Mitch,” I tell him.

“You’re right. I think Marley being home is dredging up old feelings that I’ve been trying to ignore,” he admits.

I think he’s probably right, but I’m not a shrink, and I’ve got my own fucking problems that I can’t get a grasp on.

“I wish I knew what the right things to say were,” I tell him.

He looks over at me, before standing up. “I don’t expect you to have the answers, Clark. I just appreciate you being here for me,” he says, walking to the bedroom door.

I don’t say anything in response, and he turns around to look at me before opening the door.

“I’m here for you, too. You know, in case there’s anything you ever want to talk about,” he says, raising his eyebrows.

I know he’s talking about Riley, but there’s no way I’m dragging him into the shit I’ve got myself messed up in.

“I appreciate that,” I tell him.

He nods in understanding before walking out of the room.

“Fuck me.” I groan, running my hand down my face.

I’ve got to get my life figured out. I’m running the risk of hurting way too many people with the amount of shit I’ve been trying to keep locked up.

* * *

Two Weeks Later

“She’s making so much progress.”

I’m standing in the middle of the nursing home bedroom, staring at my mother. It doesn’t look like she’s making any fucking progress to me.

“How so?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

“This morning Dr. Holmes felt a finger grip in response to a question,” the nurse says, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

“I’d hardly call that progress.” I scoff.

“Well, Mr. James, in these circumstances I always find it best to find wins wherever you can. Even the smallest things can mean progress,” she says, smoothing down the blankets on my mother’s bed.

“I find it hard to find the good in any of this,” I admit.

“That’s understandable. I’m only trying to share the good with you, especially when it seems like it happens so little,” she says, looking up at me with sympathy.

I fucking hate it when people feel sorry for me.

“Before I go, I wanted to let you know there wasn’t a payment made yesterday. I wasn’t sure if you were aware,” she says, coughing into her hand.

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