“Nothing,” I sob.
“Oh, sweetheart. Come here, give me your bag. Get in the car.” Mum directs my basic functions like I’m five again and stuffs me into the passenger seat. Then she’s in the driver’s seat, picking up her glasses from the dashboard and peering at me like the clue to my inner turmoil might be tattooed on my face. Spoiler alert: it is not.
“Is this about Bradley?” Mum asks.
I would honestly rather die than say yes, because that would involve admitting to my mother that I have a romantic connection with another human person, and since I haven’t even managed to admit that to the person in question, I’m clearly not there yet.
Brad’s phone sits heavy in my pocket, vibrating with a text that’s probably from Jordan.
“He’s doing well,” Mum says. “Back at home resting. Just some cracked ribs and abrasions and a minor concussion. Maria says he’ll be right as rain—”
This news does make me feel at least a quarter better. One of the links in the anxiety chain formerly known as my spine loosens.
“—in time for your little party at the weekend.”
Aaaand that makes me feel worse. Because Brad might be at the ball, but he won’t want to see me. And I don’t want to see Dad. And I should be so happy right now because I did it; I’m a Breakspeare Explorer, whether I get the scholarship or not; I have Katharine Breakspeare’s seal of approval and the chance to network to my heart’s content in a fabulous dress Michaela officially labeled absolutely bitchin’。 I have achieved multiple steps on my Steps to Success board, except I don’t even give a damn because I’ve also monumentally fucked everything up.
It’s possible that I’m crying again.
“Celine,” Mum says, concerned. “What’s wrong? Talk to me. You’re giving me a heart attack. Feel my heart.” She takes my limp hand and presses it to her chest, like I can feel anything through her many layers of winter clothes. “See? You’re killing your mother.”
“I’m sorry,” I choke out.
“Don’t be silly. Come now, tell me what’s happened. This is a drop-off only parking space, and I can see a warden down the street.” She narrows her eyes at a man in a high-vis jacket several cars away.
God, I’m being ridiculous. I take a few deep breaths and pull myself together, tucking my knees up against my chest.
“Ah!” Mum says. “No shoes on my upholstery, Celine!”
“Seriously?” I mutter. “I’m crying.”
“I’ll cry if you stain my seats. Shoes off.”
I kick my boots into the footwell with great difficulty and resume my pose of desolation. Mum makes a satisfied noise, starts the engine, and speeds off with a sound of triumph as the traffic warden approaches.
My confession is delivered to the smooth, plastic face of the car’s glove box. “I saw Dad.”
There is a stomach-wobbling pause before Mum responds. “In a Scottish forest? On a workday? Is he going through a midlife crisis?”
I know she’s trying to make me laugh so I attempt to drum up a smile. “No. It was before Christmas. His…” Say it. Stop keeping things inside to protect yourself and start sharing them to do right by other people. “His firm is one of the BEP sponsors. He was in a meeting with Katharine and we bumped into each other. He’ll probably be at the ball. I’m sorry…I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I didn’t want to stress you out.” But that’s not the whole truth. Sighing, I add, “I didn’t want to tell you because my original plan was to torture him at the Explorers’ Ball with my success, and I thought you might find that plan slightly deranged and be disappointed with me.” My voice gets smaller and smaller as the sentence goes on, but the point is, I get it out. The world doesn’t explode, I don’t shrink into a hole of embarrassment, and Mum doesn’t disavow me just because I’m a fool.
Another chain link of anxiety loosens a bit.
She blows out a soft breath, then reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry. That must be the first time you’ve seen him in…”
“Years,” I finish.
“What did he say?”
It’s embarrassing to admit, even to Mum, that he said pretty much nothing. That, even when faced with his own child, he still wasn’t moved enough to apologize or attempt to make amends. That he didn’t try to get in contact afterward, that he scurried away as soon as he could and didn’t look back. Again.
My throat feels tight.
“Ah,” Mum murmurs.
“Aren’t you angry with me? For…for hiding it?”
She turns to look at me for so long I become mildly concerned we might run a red light. After a moment, she says, “I did you girls a disservice when I chose your father. I should’ve chosen a man who would always do his duty. You shouldn’t know what this feels like.”
Protest rises without a second thought. “No. It’s not your fault, Mum. His behavior is his choice. You can’t control other people.”
She smiles as she checks the rearview mirror. “Mmm. That’s hard to remember sometimes.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Yeah, it is.” Because even as I said the words, I knew how much of a hypocrite I am. I know my dad disappearing so completely has nothing to do with me as a person, but the hurt’s still there.
“How you feel about your father,” Mum begins, “and how you choose to deal with it—I cannot dictate that. It isn’t happening to me. Not in the same way. So I’m sad you didn’t tell me then, Celine, and I’m sad you’ve been alone with this, but I’m grateful you’re telling me now.”
My chest is tight because the truth is, I wasn’t alone. I had Brad and he wouldn’t leave me alone for a second, but I still tried to leave him first. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Yes?”
“What do you think about, like…counseling and stuff? For me, I mean? I did some research,” I add quickly, “and it doesn’t have to be expensive.” It’s amazing what a quick Google search at the back of a bus will teach you. There’s all kinds of options, and one of them’s got to help, because I am sick of being like this—anxious and afraid.
“If that’s what you want,” Mum says slowly, “it might be a good idea. And believe it or not, Celine,” she adds dryly, “we have money for important things. We are not utterly destitute.”
I flush. “I know.”
“Or even slightly destitute.”
“I know—”
“Good. Maria suggested counseling to me years ago, for you girls.” She chews on her lip. “I didn’t think it was necessary. You seemed…fine. Your sister was angry, yes, but I assumed that was normal. I suppose that was unwise of me. What is normal? What is fine? I don’t know.” She sighs, shrugs. “We’ll sort something out, baby. If that’s what you want. We will.”
I take a breath, and as my lungs expand my shoulders rise, looser than I thought they could be. “Thanks, Mum.”
She pats my knee and shifts gears. “You said your father’s supposed to be at this ball?”