Page 105 of Chasing Headlines

“What was it like?” Her voice was soft as her hand slipped to rest on my wrist. That warm flickering ventured higher.

“It was like this game or something. We never called it that, but it was to me. Pretending I'd go to college like she wanted me to.” I closed my eyes and tried to keep the memories at bay. But they ached and burned all the way through. “We'd make plans. Like fuckin fairy tales.”

“It gave her hope.”

“It was just dumb kid stuff. What to buy for my dorm room, classes I'd take. Ordinary things.” Silence hung like darkened cobwebs in the air—sticky, vacant, they slowed buzzing thoughts and empty words.

But I couldn't hide behind them forever.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I hate feeling like this. It's like you want to say something, convey . . . something. But it's not about the words. And yet we think that we need to say something.”

The heat in my stomach mixed with freezing liquid. The strange hot-and-cold stew tumbled over. “Huh?”

“I'm sure everyone's sorry and said they're sorry, and you've heard it a thousand times. We all mean well, by the way. We just don't have words.”

I rubbed a hand over my forehead. Maybe that was the end of it. A little different than the standard lines. She meant well. Good talk. “It's fine. Most people just say ‘sorry’. I don’t need a speech.”

“I'm not, though.” Her hair swished against my arm as she shook her head. “It's sad your mother died. It is. Because of all the things she'll miss. It's very sad. But, I'm glad she lived.”

The words hit like a sucker punch to my stomach. Air whooshed from my lungs. My whole-body aching and raw, I pulled from her grasp and rose to my feet. I glanced in the direction of the door, but the shrinking space was dark and still.

How could she of all people find those words? Strange and rambling awkward fucking words that made everything hurt all over again. People were supposed to say they were sorry, look sad for a moment, and then talk about the weather. Or ask something else mundane that didn't fucking matter. Platitudes like “if there's ever anything I can do . . .”

And if it weren't my mother, I wouldn't know what to say or do for someone either. “Why?” Was all I could manage.

“My mother left when I was seven. Lots of 'I'm sorry' and 'poor things’ said to and about me. But all that matters from that time was my brother, making sure life felt normal. When it's not . . . normal for a mother to turn her back on her children.”

I sucked in a breath. This was too much. Too damned much to feel or think. I should be training right now. That's what I needed. Not, not this.

“So, what classes will you take? Your first semester?”

“What the hell? Are you—” And that's when it hit me. She was telling me she was anxious. The signs had all been there: tremors and shakiness. Probably the rambling. Especially the rambling.

Yeah, I was ‘dumb brained’ as Coach Jay used to call us, when we were making boneheaded mistakes. I shoved my hands in my pockets. Hung my head. “Probably make me take all the same crappy shit I took in high school.”

“Like economics?”

I huffed. “That one'll be the worst. Guaranteed.” I moved back to approximately, where I thought I'd been sitting before. I think I missed. She felt further away.

“Do you think they'll have hangers in the dorms or we'll need to buy some?”

“No idea. Probably have to bring our own, is my guess.” I scooted closer to the sound of her voice. Should I ask if she was ok? Pretend I didn't know? She'd had my back with all that crazy hacking crap. “Should get my truck tuned up.”

“Some new tires. It's a long way to drive from Ramona, Oklahoma.”

“You'll call me when you get there. I'll be worried. That's what mothers do best, you know.”

I couldn't play anymore. I hoped she'd be ok. Hell, I'd hold her, hold onto her as long as she'd let me.Just don't make me . . .

“You're not a bad guy, you know.”

My stomach un-knotted and my lungs managed to pull in air. “First person to think that in a while.”

“Nah, Dotty has you figured out,” she said with a breathy laugh. “I wish I could figure her out. I need to write an article for Founders’ Day. And it can't be a run-of-the-mill bio, has to be some amazing take on her story, or Mrs. P will kill my grade.”

“Maybe being a reporter’s not your gig.”

“Really.” Her voice dropped and found a sharper edge.