Sara’s chin quivers as she cries. “Please, stop. Don’t go.” She touches his arm.
“You’ve made me choose between you and Dad my whole fucking life. You can’t stop me from having a relationship with Lo. You can’t make that decision for me.”
“I’m your mom.”
“And you lied to me!” Ryke shouts, pain enveloping his face. “You ruined someone’s life for a fucking feud, and you were willing to sacrifice me doing it.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “If I thought you’d react like this, I would have never—”
“I don’t believe you,” he says flatly. “If you knew me at all, you’d realize that I’d hate you for what you’ve done. I can forgive you for a lot of things. But this…” He lets out a weak laugh like he’s stuck inside a nightmare. “What the fuck, Mom?” He takes a deep breath. “I’m gone in an hour. I have a few more boxes.”
She can’t stop crying. Sara hugs the counter, expecting Ryke to come into her arms, to comfort her and say everything’s okay.
But he can barely look at her without his breath shortening.
“Just answer me one thing,” Ryke says. “How did you find out that she was a sex addict? I never told you that.” He didn’t? I thought maybe that’s how she learned.
Sara sniffs and gestures to his pocket. “Your cell…your texts…”
Oh God.
Ryke pinches his eyes.
She read his texts. I’m sure there are many mentioning my addiction, or hinting about it. Ryke always asked how therapy went. He was the first person to tell Lo and me that aversion therapy is sadistic and to stop seeing Dr. Evans. And before that, he most likely texted back and forth with Lo about my progress with Allison.
Lo kisses my hand a couple times, and he wipes my tears with his thumb. I let go of his palm because I think we both know that I’m not the one crumbling right now. I don’t even need to nudge Lo. He’s beside his brother within the second.
“So you found their numbers from my cell?” Ryke asks, trying to suppress more tears, his eyes bloodshot.
“I just…” She cries into her hand.
“You what?” Ryke says. “You wanted me to stop hanging out with Lo? You wanted Jonathan’s son to suffer because Lo took me from you? That’s…fucked up, Mom. That’s real fucked up.”
“Please…it sounds worse than it is.”
“I assure you, it’s that bad.” Ryke tries to take a deep breath, but he can’t quite let it out. “Well, you got what you wanted. I hope you’re happy with that.” Ryke turns to Lo. “Can you help me finish my room? And then we can get out of here.”
“Sure.”
We leave his mother bawling in the corner of the kitchen. I almost feel bad. Almost. But when I see Ryke, that pity for her transforms into hate again. Because she hurt her son more than she could hurt me. This was personal, and even though she was going after Jonathan, she hit Ryke directly in the heart.
The door closes, and Ryke just shatters completely.
He squats in the middle of the room, his hands on his head, not able to take a full breath. “What the fuck?” he keeps repeating. “What the fuck?” He laughs painfully into a broken sob.
Lo bends beside him and sets a hand on his back. “Hey, you’re all right. It’s okay.”
Ryke covers his face in his hands and he screams, all the pent-up rage coming. He suddenly shoots to his feet, his reddened eyes pinging around the room, crazed and tear-streaked. He finds a baseball bat.
“Whoa, whoa,” Lo says, prying the weapon from Ryke’s hand.
“I need to hit something,” Ryke says, restless.
“Just sit down.”
“I can’t!” Ryke screams. “My mother fucking ruined your life! None of this would have happened if it weren’t for—”
And then Lo pulls him to his chest, for a hug. Ryke hesitates for a second, and I wonder if he’s going to release his aggression on Lo by punching him. Instead, he fists the back of Lo’s shirt, and they stay like that, with Ryke choking, with his body vibrating in agony and guilt, and Lo clutching tightly, not letting go.
“It’s not your fault,” Lo says, holding onto his older brother.
Many months ago, the roles were reversed. Lo would have never been strong enough to be a support for someone else, especially someone that hardly ever breaks down.
I wipe a few silent tears. I know the kind of remorse that puts deep pain on your chest, the kind that feels as weighted as Atlas bearing the world. It’s soul-crushing.