Dean stared at Trina, surprised to hear her stepping up to his defense.
“No,” Mom said with a sigh. “I don’t suppose it is. I swear, since the moment you were born, the two of you found something to fight about. If I put you to bed, you went down so sweet. If he tried bedtime it would be three hours of screaming and wailing. From the two of you.”
He sighed, rubbed a hand over his face. He’d been a hearing a version of this story for as long as he could remember.
“He’s the father,” Trina said, still staunchly defending him. “The adult. If anyone should rise above it, it should be him, don’t you think?”
“Of course I think, but there’s no convincing Eugene of that.”
Dean dropped his hand and stared at the two women. What was happening here?
“I don’t think it’s fair to blame a child for something an adult didn’t do,” Trina said. She had a red blush climbing up from her neckline.
“True,” Mom said. “But he’s not a child anymore, is he?”
“You know I’m sitting right here,” Dean said. “I can hear you.”
“Then hear this,” Mom said. “Your father is just a man, like any other. And the only power he has is the power you give him.”
“That might work in your marriage, Marion,” Trina said. “But Eugene is Dean’s father. For years, he had all the power.”
Mom sat back against the pillows, staring at Trina like she’d never heard her language before.
“Would you like some ginger ale?” Trina asked him. “Or Coke? That’s all they had except for that gross vending machine coffee.”
Dean felt a little bit like he had slipped down a rabbit hole. “Do you have anything stronger?”
“Sorry,” she said. “Spiked hot chocolate is your forte.”
She was smiling, slightly. A careful smile. A tentative one.
Remember? her smile said. Remember how close we used to be? Remember that awful night when we trusted each other more than anyone else on earth?
The reminder was unnecessary and bitter.
“Don’t,” he said, and the smile dropped from her face. Last year, he could smile and pretend. This year, in his mother’s hospital room, he didn’t make nice.
Mom was watching them, her shrewd eyes taking in all the things he didn’t quite have the power to hide tonight.
“Trina? Can I see you outside?” Without waiting for an answer, he got up and walked into the hallway.
There was a limit. And he’d just hit his.
It wasn’t like she didn’t know what was waiting for her out in that hallway. Dean was mad. Furious. And frankly, he had every right to be. And she’d had this stupid plan, which of course had gone wrong. Because really what she should have done was call him. Months ago.
But she’d wanted to get rid of some of the stuff between them. Some of her stuff.
“Just tell him, honey,” Marion said.
Trina patted the woman’s hand and followed Dean outside. Her feet were nearly numb from the cold floor, but anything was better than the devil shoes she’d been wearing most of the night.
She found him in the little waiting room at the end of the hallway, pacing between walls covered in watercolors of cowboys and dogs.
“What the hell is going on?” He spun on her when she stepped into the room.
“I didn’t think your mother should be alone.”
“That’s great, but when did you get to be honey?”
She blinked. This wasn’t quite the conversation she’d been expecting.
“She’s been really good to me. Always has been.”
He pulled off his hat and tossed it on the chair. His hair was all clumpy and sticking to his forehead. If she’d done things right, if she hadn’t been so angry and scared and dumb, she would have had the right to unstick his hair from his head. She could ruffle it and feather it back.
She could touch him the way she wanted.
Because he would be hers.
“Your mom’s been helping me since I left your dad’s company. I’m still fighting the pipeline. I’m just doing it away from your brother, who, I might add, is worse than your father could ever dream of being.”
“How is my mother helping you?”
“Money. Logistics. Making introductions to the right people. You’d be surprised by how politically connected your mother is.”
“Nothing about my mother surprises me.” His voice was cold. Hard. Don’t tell me about my mother, it said.
“Of course,” she said, uncomfortable and awkward. “She’s your mother.”
This was not how this all was supposed to go. There had been a plan. A dress. A fancy hairdo. She’d anticipated champagne. Olives. Not Cheetos fingers.
It was actually kind of amazing how awful she was at this. How every step she took was wrong.
“Those things…you said in there. About me.” He shook his head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“No. Of course it matters.” She took a deep breath. “You matter, Dean. You’ve always mattered.”
“What am I supposed to say to that?”
“You don’t have to say anything.”