Page 84 of The Problem with Perfect

Bellamy

“Doesn’t it look great?”

I wrap my arm snugly around my mom’s shoulder, both of us sweaty and exhausted from a hard day of work in the yard.

“It looks fantastic,” I tell her. “Gives the whole porch a great vibe.”

We stare for a moment longer at the new plants we’ve just put in around the large deck that juts out from the back of our house. All winter long, mom was talking about digging up the hedge they planted right after they built the deck fifteen years ago to replace it with something “more inviting”—her words, not mine. I personally don’t think it looks that much different than the bush that was there before, but hey, I promised my mom I’d help her in the garden. As long as she’s happy about it, that’s all that matters.

“Now, in the spring, beautiful flowers will bloom and give some gorgeous color when I look out the kitchen window,” she says, clasping her gloved hands, beaming at the fruits of our labor.

While she rolls our wheelbarrow around to the garage, I collect the shovels and follow behind. Then we drop into the padded chairs on the back deck, each with a cliché glass of cool lemonade.

“Why do you always do lemonade?” I ask as I take a sip, referring to the fact that she always makes some to put in the fridge the night before we’re going to do yardwork.

“Because when you were a little girl and we planted the trees around the guesthouse, you said you would only help if we gave you lemonade.”

I snort. “I did not.”

My mother grins and laughs, her eyes twinkling. “You most certainly did. You were adamant about it.” She shrugs. “I just thought that was so precious, so I’ve always made lemonade whenever we’re doing outside work.”

Giggling, I take another sip then smack my lips. “Well, it sure is delicious. It’s a little more sour this time, and I am definitely a fan.”

“I’ll make sure to note that for next week,” she says, winking at me.

“I can help more, if you want,” I offer.

She eyes me curiously. “Don’t you need to be studying for your exam?”

I nod. “I have time for that, too.”

“Bellamy.” My mother pins me with a look that says she’s not pleased with my answer. “You’ve been around the house a lot over the past week. Everything okay between you and Rusty?”

The woman is infuriatingly observant, always has been. It made life particularly difficult when I was in high school and wanted a little more freedom. Sneaking out was pretty much never an option. Thankfully, as an adult still living in her home, she hasn’t been too much of a helicopter, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t still all-seeing at the most inopportune moments.

“Things are fine.”

I’m a horrible liar, and I don’t doubt my mom can hear it in my voice. Things are most definitely not fine. Rusty threatened to break up with me, we haven’t talked in a week, and I’m feeling far more emotional about it than I ever expected. So no…not fine.

I’ve been hyper-focused on replaying our conversation and wondering if the things I said to him cut too deeply, if maybe I was overly worried about him giving up and lashed back too strong. But I know the things I said were true, even if they were hard to hear. In all our discussions about his work and his sister and his friendships, it’s been so clear to me that he sees himself as the sacrificial lamb in every scenario. There isn’t ever a reason for someone else to carry the burden, and if he keeps going that way, he’s going to work himself into the ground and everything will suffer—his business, his relationships, his own sense of self-worth.

I can’t imagine a world where feeling like your emotions and desires aren’t worth tending to would ever allow someone to feel whole. So, even though what I said was tough and might have hit Rusty in a place he wasn’t prepared for, it still needed to be said. My hope is that, with time, he’ll know that, too.

I lean my head against the back of the seat, closing my eyes and hoping my silence is enough of a message to my mother that I’m not in the mood to talk about Rusty.

“I’ve always liked that boy,” she says, either missing my cues or ignoring them completely. “Sometimes I feel like he was dealt the most unfair hand in the history of cards.”

I nod, agreeing with her but keeping my eyes firmly shut. If she wants to talk, she can. That’s fine, but I don’t have to share.

“He always had a big heart. Even when he was younger, when so many kids don’t know how to think about anyone but themselves, he was always the helper, always willing to take the back seat in any situation to give someone else what they wanted.”

That soundsexactlylike Rusty.

“When his parents died, he changed, though.”

At that, I open my eyes, and I see she’s staring out at the water, lost in memories of a time that was so painful for anyone who loved Everett and Gina Fuller.

“When he was younger, he was always happy to give to others, like it filled up something inside of him…like that was a part of him that gave him joy.” She shakes her head. “But after they died, that light dimmed, as if he thought he wasn’t allowed to be happy anymore, wasn’t allowed to want anything. I always got the feeling Rusty thought he was expected to be the one to sacrifice but never feel good about it.”

---