Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 21888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 88(@250wpm)___ 73(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 88(@250wpm)___ 73(@300wpm)
“And you couldn’t turn to your mom?”
I glanced up at him.
“Not that I wish you had, but it’s really fucking sad you couldn’t even ask your mom for help.”
I shook my head. “I meant it when I said I haven’t been speaking with her. She texts me every now and then, oblivious or just ignorant to the fact that she fucked things up. She clearly doesn’t see it, but I’ve all but written her out of my life. It was a long time coming.” I sighed and closed my eyes. “I sound like one of those depressing country songs.” I snorted, but there was nothing funny about it.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, and I could hear how much he meant those two words. “I’m sorry about you not being able to lean on your mom. I’m sorry that your boss is a dirty motherfucker who needs his teeth kicked in.” I looked over at him then. “I’m just really sorry, Lenora.”
I shrugged. “It’s fine. I’m fine. That’s life, I guess.” I looked down at my hands, picking at a thread on the blanket. “I’m just glad I could ask you for help.” I swallowed roughly. “You were the only person I could turn to, but after… well, after all that, I was terrified but had no other options.” I glanced back at my hands, feeling so nervous I could throw up right now.
“Lenora?” He said my name softly.
I looked over at him. The glow from the TV illuminated the darkened living room. The kitchen light was still on, and a soft, white light came from the other side, casting shadows across Beckham.
I thought about our last interaction, the last time we’d been face-to-face six months ago. And thinking about what happened, what was said, pulled me into the past until I felt like I was drowning in it.
I was crying. So was Beckham. Even his father was sobbing. And my mother, the one person who started this catalyst of pain and hurt, had left, not wanting the “dramatics” of the end of everyone’s story.
I looked over at Rob, Beckham’s father, and I felt my heart breaking for him. He sat on the couch with his head in his hands, his big body shaking. I’d never seen a grown man cry before, but when my mother’s infidelity came to light, when she admitted she no longer loved Rob, that she hadn’t been in love with him for a very long time, I literally watched the life fade from his eyes.
He been in love with my mother, that was clear. That was his mistake. It was very obvious he also thought they were going to be together forever, grow old, enjoy family holidays with grandchildren. He had their life mapped out.
I lifted my hand and rubbed my chest, an ache settling there. I looked back at Beckham. He glanced at me like he… hated me.
“Beckham,” I said, wanting to tell him none of this was my fault, that none of this was his. It wasn’t Rob’s or anyone else’s. It was my mother’s fault, only hers.
God, I was so sorry.
I took a step toward him, but he shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at his father. I could hear Rob sobbing softly, and when Beckham slid his gaze back over to me, the loathing I knew he felt for my mother in that instant was projected onto me.
“I had no idea.” That was the truth. My mother had always been an absentee parent, had never shown me much attention. I hadn’t noticed anything different.
“How could you have not?” His voice was like venom, acid over my skin.
I felt my anger grow. “The same way you didn’t see it. The same way Rob didn’t see it.” I saw his jaw clench almost violently.
“She’s your mother, Lenora.” The way he said my name had my heart stopping for just a second. He sounded like he didn’t know me.
“Beckham, you’re hurting. But please don’t take it out on me.” When I’d come home, everyone was fighting, yelling, insults being thrown out. That’s when I heard Beckham slighting my mother. That’s when I snapped.
All I saw was my mother with wide eyes looking between them, once again playing the victim. And I’d instantly gotten defensive. She might’ve been a shitty mom, but all I saw was the woman who’d given me life. And I guess that was my mistake.
Beckham had called her a whore, and something in me had defended her, screamed at him. It had been a rant, like this instinct to protect her, even if I didn’t know if she’d do the same for me. All I thought was... that’s my mom.
The dramatics of it all consumed me so much that I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I called him hateful, disrespectful, asked him who the fuck he thought he was. I did all this before I heard the entire story. And all the while, my mother stood back, not saying one word. And then she was gone, muttering about the dramatics and not wanting anything to do with us, grumbling how she was glad things were finally out in the open.