“What? No, of course not.” I certainly don’t want to tell her about a certain guy who’s flipping my world upside down while I’m along for the ride.
I last saw Jeremy yesterday after I got embarrassingly drunk, kissed him, and told him I’d miss him, then crashed in his bed. I snuck out of his room like a thief, then mistakenly walked in on Killian and Glyn making out in the game room and on Nikolai floating in the pool wearing nothing but boxers. I thought he was dead, so I frantically called Ilya, but it turns out, the incident was normal for the guy.
All in all, my sneaking-out session ended up with me seeing almost everyone in the Heathens’ compound before leaving. But hey, at least Jeremy didn’t catch me.
Now, I’m not sure if that was such a great idea. Because what I said is true. I do miss him. And I only got here yesterday.
“Cecy!”
“W-what?” I jump up and wince when I realize I’ve cut myself, and blood is dripping on the cutting board and some of the vegetables.
Mum snatches a tissue and presses it on my bleeding finger, her hand shaking. She’s always had this overboard reaction whenever I’m bleeding, even if it’s a minor cut. Papa, too. I think it has to do with the scars on her wrists, which is why I’ve never blamed them for being too overprotective.
“I’m fine, Mum.” I remove the tissue, showing her that the bleeding has stopped. “See? It’s nothing.”
She flips my hand back and forth and only releases a breath when she ensures the cut is minor. “You need to be careful with the knife, hon.”
She’d faint if she found out what Jeremy does to me with the knife, and that I actually enjoy it.
Mum gets me a plaster from the cupboard and puts it on my finger. After she’s done, I throw away the dirtied vegetables and get new ones, then I climb on the chair to start anew. Mum puts the stove on the lowest temperature, gets her own knife, and settles across from me.
“I can do it on my own,” I tell her.
“It’ll get done faster if I help. At least I’m not distracted.”
“Who says I am?”
“You’ve zoned out a few times and you keep checking your phone in an unhealthy way. Are you waiting for a text or a call?”
“No,” I say with an awkward smile that she must read right through.
“Uh-huh.” She fixates me with that ‘I’m your mother, and I know everything about you’ look. “Your aunt Silver was here the other day and told me something interesting.”
“And what is that?”
“Ava told her you were seeing some American boy, and she asked Silver to start picking her bridesmaid dress.”
That little snitch.
I know Ava is tight with her mum and basically tells her everything, but this is different. She knows I haven’t come to terms with this. According to her, I’m just delaying the inevitable, but semantics.
“Is it true?” Mum stares at me.
I place the knife on the table to avoid accidentally cutting myself again. “It’s…complicated.”
“How complicated?” Her voice softens. “You know you can tell me anything, right? I’m always on your side.”
“Even if he…he’s not the conventional type?”
“You’re a very responsible girl, Cecy. You always were, even as a child. So much so that I was worried you wanted to get older prematurely without living your life. But that’s also why I trust you to make the right choice.”
My chest twists, and I stare at the cutting board, at the half-slaughtered vegetables, and everywhere else but at Mum’s face.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s completely fine.” She pats my hand. “Just know I’m here for you whenever you’re ready.”
She releases me and stands up to check on the food. She often does that whenever she feels like she’s pushed too much or shoved me out of my comfort zone.
Mum knows when she’s started to poke my demons and always, without doubt, steps back and gives me time to recuperate.
She hopes I’ll come to her when I’m ready, but I’ve always used that time to escape from her, to drown further into myself, and try to fix my fuck-ups on my own.
This is the first time I’ve gathered the courage so that I can use the chance she’s given me.
“I haven’t always made the right choice, Mum.” My voice is so low, lower than the water boiling on the stove and the sound of stirring she makes.
She starts to turn around, and I blurt, “Please don’t look at me. I can’t say this if you’re looking at me.”
I’m too ashamed to meet her eyes.
“Okay,” she says in an affectionate tone and remains in place.
“Remember when you told me you had a bad feeling about Jonah? You were right, Mum.”
“Is this about how he recently got arrested for assault and drugs?”
“That was the end of it. The actual story started a long time ago.”
I don’t know how I find the courage to tell her everything that happened. I tell her about that night, the sleep paralysis—which is why I locked my room so no one could see me in that state—the fear of the opposite sex, relationships, and my lack of trust in everything.
The words flow naturally, without any effort, as if they’ve been waiting all this time for me to tell Mum the truth that’s been festering inside me for so long.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Mum.” My voice is raw and brittle. “I was just so scared about those pictures becoming public and ruining your reputation. I was also terrified that you’d remind me that you’d never liked him and had encouraged me to leave him. It would’ve killed me if you’d blamed me for it or said I told you so.”
She starts to whirl around again.
“No, Mum, please. Don’t look at me when I’m like this.”
Her fingers are unsteady as she turns off the stove and faces me, eyes shining with tears, and her features as pale as I imagine mine are.
Then she comes to my side, slowly, with measured steps, and stops a few breaths away. Her chest rises and falls hard, as hard as mine, as if she can snatch my feelings and mold them into her own.
She wipes the tears sliding down my cheeks. “Why can’t I look at you like this? If the world refuses to see this version of you and the pain you went through, I will. All day. Every day.”
“You won’t say none of this would’ve happened if I’d listened to you?”
“No, because no one can be sure of what would’ve happened. He could’ve found other ways.” She strokes my cheek, my tears, and my anguish. “I want you to know and believe it wasn’t your fault, honey. None of it was.”
“But—”
“No buts, Cecily.” She’s crying, too, as much as I am, until tears stain her cheeks. “I was a victim, too, once, and the perpetrator was the one person who should’ve been protecting me.”
“Your mother?” I’ve only met her once, when she showed up at our door when I was seven, and I hated that woman at first sight. She’s a world-famous artist and had a haughty expression that rubbed me the wrong way.