Chapter 39

I grind my teeth together, biting back the urge to call out to Rory.

To beg her to stay.

I just want to pretend it didn't happen, to go back to loving my woman?—

Except, I haven't been doing a great job of that, have I?

Freaking out and running away when she'd been through the shit. Again.

Not doing anything about it. Again.

You're not your father.

A pain splinters through my head and I rub at the ache, trying to shove it all down…to forget, to focus on all of the good I've found despite?—

"You know your father is my best friend," my mom says, sitting on the step next to me.

"I know, Mom," I mutter, starting to push up. I'll shower or cook dinner or…fuck it, I'll go and work out in the gym until I stop feeling like an asshole.

Until I stop having these thoughts.

Except, that hasn't worked before, has it?

Her hand clamps onto my wrist. "Sit down, King."

I freeze…because Mom Tone.

It slides down my spine, locks my muscles, and my ass plunks back onto the riser before I've even processed I'm moving.

"God," I mutter, "you haven't pulled that tone with me in years."

"Probably not for a decade," she agrees, releasing my arm and bumping her shoulder against mine. "Because you always tried to be perfect, King." She sighs, voice gentling. "Do you remember the last fight we got into?"

Guilt churns in my gut.

Because, yeah, of course I do.

I was an asshole teenager who didn't appreciate being told what to do. "I should have gone to Dad's game." His last game ever playing.

And I didn't go because I was too busy chasing my own dreams.

We don't do selfishness in this family, Kingston Bang. Your family needs you there.

And, spoiler alert, they had.

Because my dad got hurt—bad enough that he couldn't finish the game.

And I wasn't there.

"I was wrong," she says. "I was wrong in pushing you to go, in expecting you to put your life on hold. You were working, baby. Working hard and missing out on so many fun things and I had absolutely no right to make you feel bad for not going to one game when you made an effort to be at so many others."

My throat tightens. "It wasn't enough. He could have?—"

Died. My dad could have died and I would have been playing in some tiny ass Canadian town, playing in a game that meant nothing in the grand scheme of my life and?—

I wouldn't have gotten to see him, to say goodbye.

"Anything can go wrong at any time," she says softly. "You know how quickly I lost Diane"—my heart pulses when her voice cracks, and I know, know how much losing her best friend has affected her—"but what you don't know is that it's made me understand a few things." Her hands come to my cheeks. "Life is precious and short, and"—her mouth hitches up—"as is illustrated by my terrible matchmaking attempts between you and Stacy, as well as me trying to make my relationship with Cathy something it's not…" She sighs, put out. "I'm not always right."

Something in my chest pulses, unlocks, settles. "Who dare says that?" I say lightly.

"I say." She straightens. "I want you all to be happy. I want you to be fulfilled. I want you to have your person at your side—like I have my person. But, honey, as much as I love your father, he's not perfect, and"—her mouth curves into a gentle smile—"you can't be either."

I take her hand, squeeze it lightly. "I know that."

"Do you?"

"You guys are both superheroes," I say quietly. "I don't know how you kept it together at home, how Dad always seems to know everything that's going on?—"

She slants me a look and clarity slams into me like a two-by-four to the temple.

"It's you," I say. "Of course it's been you."

Her brows drag together.

"I don't mean that Dad hasn't been involved," I hurry to tell her. "He's always there when we need him." I bump her shoulder with mine this time. "I just…I'm thinking that's mostly because of you."

"No, baby," she says gently. "It's because your dad and I are a team. Because any problem that we've faced, we've done it together. Do I keep the mental tally of birthdays and holidays and your crazy schedules? Yes. Do I spend a bundle on Amazon every year, making sure appropriate presents arrive? Yes, I do." She smiles. "But does your dad wrap those presents because I can never make the paper look neat? Yes. And is my gas tank full and my car serviced on the regular? Are my favorite cookies always in the pantry? Does he bring me a coffee in bed every morning he's home? Yes, to all." Her hand settles on my arm. "And does he drop everything when I need him—no matter where in the world he is and what time it is and if it's something big or small? Yes, baby, he does. Because we've worked as a team to figure out the things that are important to each other. Because we love each other in a thousand small ways every day. Because he's my person."

I inhale.

"And because—" Her voice cracks and I know she's thinking of Diane again.

"—you're amazing and Dad knows he needs to bring it so you don't get smart and leave him?"

She stills, touches my cheek, eyes damp. "See, baby? You may not be perfect, but you pay attention. You're sensitive and you care and I know you can love Rory as she deserves." Her fingers flex. "The question is if you're going to have the courage to allow yourself to be loved in return. Because Rory doesn't need perfect. She just needs you."

I just want you to be you.

"I don't have to be perfect."

"No, baby."

"I—"

God, I know that. I guess. It's just…hard.

But when have I backed down from hard?

I can do the work, put the time in, just like I did to get into the league—even though I'm by far from the best player around.

I can do this.

I can love Rory like she deserves.

God knows, loving her is the easiest thing I've ever done.

It's the rest of it, the bullshit in my own head that's hard.

So…I start there.

"I don't have to be Dad," I murmur. "Or Jakob or anyone but me."

"Right," she says. "Because you, Kingston Bang, my favorite oldest son?—"

My lips twitch.

"Are perfectly imperfect and lovable, exactly as you are." She touches my jaw. "There's give and take in every relationship, baby, and so long as you're not seeing the other person as the source of all of your problems, and you're tackling the hard stuff together then things will be okay. And I don't mean ignoring red flags if someone isn't right for you?—"

I cough. "Stacy!"

She sighs, narrows her eyes. "—or tries to hurt you. I mean finding that right person for you—" A pointed look. "And occasionally doing it without any help from your well-meaning mother?—"

I snort.

"I mean working through the tough stuff together—the baggage from the past, the present that tries to press in, the future that can sometimes be uncertain."

My heart squeezes.

Because Rory wants a future with me.

"You can bring the organization, can keep track of important details, can love Rory in all those small ways. And Rory brings her own wonderful parts that help you two work as a unit. Together. You and her against the world. That's how your father and I survived all these years—even when he thought it was a good idea to get me a vacuum for my birthday."

I freeze, incredulous. "He what?"

She chuckles. "Rookie mistake, right?" she says. "And in fairness to him, we were young and dumb and just starting out. We hadn't worked through a lot of the tough stuff yet. My point is that?—"

"It was the two of you versus the vacuum?"

She rolls her eyes, but she's laughing too. "Yes, that. Not to mention the conversation that we had after I unwrapped the box…"

"Poor Dad," I say.

"Poor me," she says, chuckling as she bumps her shoulder against mine again. "My point is that, your dad's not perfect. He makes mistakes—we all do, right? That's the line that we're supposed to say? That mistakes are a great way to grow, and how can we learn if we don't mess up?" She sighs. "But that's also bullshit. When we mess up, it feels like the world is ending, like I'll never be able to make things right. It feels like I'm a failure as a person." Her eyes come to mine again. "The thing about kids is that they humble you—I could be the strictest most perfectionist of a mom while I was raising you guys, but toddlers are going to tantrum, siblings are going to fight, kids are still going to get hurt."

"Mom," I whisper.

"I did my best, but I still failed—still fail—and it's sucks and I hate it with a passion. That's the truth of it, baby. We fail. We make mistakes. And I don't have a magic wand to wave to make those feelings disappear. I've just learned to live with them, with those voices that tell me that I'm not going to be good enough?—"

"Mom," I say again.

"And accept it's normal for some of us," she says. "You're normal, baby. There are other people with these thoughts, who struggle to let the failures go. Maybe it's not the healthiest, and maybe we both need to work on coping mechanisms together, but, baby, you're normal. And I can't cure normal." Her eyes are gentle. "All we can do is acknowledge that we're having the feelings, that feelings aren't facts?—"

I laugh quietly.

"What?" she asks.

"Feelings aren't facts," I say. "God, it's been years since I've heard that."

Her face softens. "Maybe I need to tell you that more."

I exhale, sling my arm around her shoulders, hug her tightly. "I think if there's one thing I can be certain of, Mom," I tell her, "it's that you didn't fail in this conversation."

She sniffs, hugs me back.

In fact, this conversation…it's changed my life.

And I mean that.

The gulf inside me, the one that's filled with sharply worded memories and barbed self-doubt…well, it's not magically emptied, the sides smoothed out, but?—

I feel different.

Lighter.

My dad bought my mom a vacuum for her birthday.

God, that was dumb.

But they got through it. Together.

Have always gotten through the bumps in the road.

Together.

And that's the part I forgot.

Because I hadn't found the person who'd play the game of life with me.

Until Rory.

And even when I ran, when I fucked up, when I didn't protect her from all of the hurt and awfulness of the world…she still flowed into my arms.

She didn't yell or hold it against me or make accusations.

It really is Rory and I against the world.

Or it can be.

If I work at it.

And I can do that, can push away the fear of failure, of disappointment, and…

Just be me.

"Mom?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"There's something I need to tell you about Rory and my engagement."

She frowns, glances up at me, eyes filled with question.

A breath for courage. Then…I tell her the truth.

It's not perfect as I reveal that Rory and I had started off fake, that I haven't actually proposed to Rory, that it's too soon to do so.

I hate that I'm the reason for the disappointment on my mom's face.

Hate that I'm not perfect.

But I give her the messy and complicated truth.

And when I'm done explaining the why, she doesn't turn on me, doesn't do anything except draw me close, and say, "I'm sorry you felt you had to do that for me. And that you didn't feel safe to tell me that sooner."

A little more of that gulf in my belly is filled in.

My shoulders grow a little looser.

I can hate not being perfect—that's normal.

But I can still be safe and imperfect with the people who love me.

Because it's us.

Versus the world.