36. Locke

The ride to my mother's house is silent.

My hand never leaves Maren's thigh, like if I let go of her for even a nanosecond, she'll have second thoughts and jump out of the moving car. I tighten my fingers around her hard enough to leave an imprint.

This woman sitting beside me loves me, but I still think it will take time to adjust to that thought. The vulnerability she's handing to me because she trusts me not to hurt her, abuse her, manipulate her, take advantage of it. And I've never wanted to prove to someone more that I'll guard her like my life depends on it. Because in theory, it does.

It's the most beautiful cloudless day, and you'd never know there had just been a hurricane if I wasn't weaving around huge branches lying in the street every other block.

This is the calm before the storm. After the storm. In between the storm.

I've never felt more exposed, but I wouldn't dare to be this exposed with anyone else. Maren is about to enter the darkest part of my life, but how can I love her correctly if I don't show her all of it? I want to show her all of it, no matter how crushing the weight, because I want to be fully seen and still loved. The rarest love of all that deep down everyone wants—but also might be next to impossible to attain.

But if I show her all of this, and she still wants me …

My mom's house sits on a quiet cul-de-sac in a gated community. You'd never know from the outside, with its Spanish tile roof, peach stucco, and impeccable lawn, what living on the inside is like.

I wonder sometimes how often she's even here. How many nights she spends elsewhere to escape. Because even with everything I give her, she isn't happy.

When I pull into the driveway, Maren peers out her window, deep in thought. Possibly thinking the same things that I am.

"It looks idyllic, I know," I say.

She rubs her thumb in a circle on top of each of my knuckles, trying to relieve the tension knotted through my forearm.

"When I'm here," I continue, "the only memories I think about are staging interventions with Elise, checking to see if she's alive, dropping her back off from the hospital after an OD, her hosting dinner in a moment of clarity only for her to become more and more incoherent as she shoots up in her bedroom." Maren massages my neck when I lay my forehead on the steering wheel. It takes everything in me to breathe steadily through my pulsing temples. "I don't care that I'm thirty years old. I'm still her child, and you shouldn't ever witness your mother like that."

Her voicemail plays back in my head, her words like sobs, wishing she had more time with me, wishing she could have shown me she could be a better mother, that she loves me, that she's sorry. She couldn't understand why she'd survived the nonexistent plane crash.

Maren kisses my hand before I open the car door and start up the stone path to the front door.

I ring the doorbell as soon as I'm close enough, before I lose any of my last un-frayed nerves.

No sounds come from the other side of the door.

I try again and wait. And wait. I don't have enough strength to open the door and face what might be inside, so instead, I press my forehead against the wooden door.

After a minute, Maren's hand lightly grips my shoulder. I didn't even hear her get out of the car.

"What if she's…" My words are barely audible, and I can't manage to finish the sentence. My worst fear. And what if I speak it into existence? If I never say it, it can never happen.

She unfolds my fist and takes the key from my sweaty palm. "Let me go in first."

"Maren, I can't let you do that," I say, sounding stronger than I feel.

But she shushes me and unlocks the door. "I can be strong enough for the both of us right now."

It swings open to the empty foyer, and past that, the quiet living room that looks straight out of a Florida real estate catalog.

Maren knocks and calls out, "Mrs. Hughes?"

When no one replies, she squeezes my shoulder. "Stay here. I'll check if she's home."

What she's really thinking is ‘alive.' It's what we're both thinking.

I shake the thought out of my head and step into the foyer after Maren. She smiles reassuringly at me with closed lips as I stuff my hand in my pocket to thumb the tee I have there.

"Mrs. Hughes?" she calls again, louder and farther inside this time.

Maren disappears down the hallway. I hear a soft knock followed by a door opening and closing. I'm mapping out my mom's bedrooms in my mind as Maren repeats it three more times.

She shakes her head at me when she reappears before whipping her head toward the sound of the sliding glass door out of my eyesight.

"Who are you?"

Relief rushes down my spine at the sound of my mom's voice.

Maren's shoulders jump before I can almost see the relief cascade down her body too as her muscles uncord.

"I'm your son's girlfriend," she answers. "Maren."

There's a pause before Mom replies, "Right. The one he loves," like she's been reading articles about us.

"I love him too," Maren says, "and he wants to talk to you. "

My mom's eyes snap to me when I take three steps out into the living room and instantly fill with tears. She has to catch the handle of the door and lean her weight against it from the shock. She looks tired, the same dark circles around her eyes I saw around mine in the mirror earlier. Her blonde hair wild, like she just woke up but never went to sleep at the time.

"Hey, Mom," I say.

"Locke," she whispers through her tears.

"Can we talk?"

She nods slowly.

Maren and I sit on the couch.

I set the timer on my watch for thirty-three minutes, giving myself that three minute buffer. I don't know how this is going to go, but I'm determined, and this will only bring out my best (or worst, depending on you look at it) self.

But when I look up, I already know I'll win this argument based on how defeated she looks. Not that I would have lost, because I wasn't walking out of here without her anyway, even if it took hours.

My mom sits, listens.

I get lost in the conversation, the tears, but it won't matter how long I have to talk. It won't matter if she doesn't think she can do it. I'll talk and talk and talk. I'll never shut up as long I can get her to agree to walk out of here with me and check in to rehab.

And eventually, I'm leading her to my car.

I watch her in my rear view mirror as I pull out of the driveway. She looks tired, so exhausted that she might fall asleep mid-thought.

She's tried twice already to get sober, and even though she relapsed, she's going to attempt to try again. And that's what matters to me.

My mom is willing to get better. She wants to keep trying, fighting.

And every time, I'll be here for her.

Maybe the third time in rehab will be the charm for her. But this doesn't magically end. I don't think there is an ending to addiction .

The timer on my watch goes off, ringing through the car, and Maren snaps her head in my direction. She reaches across the console and wraps her fingers around my wrist, hitting the button to silence it with her thumb.

She narrows her feisty eyes. I love you , she mouths.

I mouth it back and lace my hand in hers.

But then again, maybe I shouldn't be giving anyone advice—I'm an asshole.

Maren and I walk back out into the Florida sun. Palm trees line the path to the parking lot, so I watch the shadows move in the breeze as we walk. I take one last look behind me. The rehabilitation center, with its grand glass opening and high white walls, almost looks like a resort.

I've never talked so much in my life during each of my now three trips here.

But it's worth it—to have her and her doctors and therapists lay out a specialized and personal treatment plan, to discuss our feelings so I can be involved in the process and support her in the best possible way. She knows that I'm here for her, and I will do everything in my power for her to get the best possible treatment.

I stop short and gather Maren into a tight hug. "Thank you," I whisper into her neck. "I know you felt like you didn't do anything, but you did. So much. Thank you for being here because I couldn't have done this without you."

She won't ever realize how much her presence calms me and lights me up at the same time. I'll never be able to put into words what she does to me. Because it's inexplicable.

"You're welcome." She traces her fingertips up and down my back before she pulls away to look me in the face. "I'm not going anywhere, okay? We're going to do this together every step of the way, and I'll support you while you support her."

I nod as she presses her palms against my cheeks. Her thumbs sweep under my eyes. I'm sure they're dark as hell. Between not knowing how to say those three simple words and my mom's phone call, I haven't slept in two days.

I let out a breath. "I need sleep."

"Let's go home," she says as she presses her lips to mine and takes my hand in hers. Her green eyes brighten against the sun when she turns her head up to look at me and smile, scrunching her freckles up. "No tournament for you this week. No work for me this week."

I smile back, exhausted. "Less."

"Less sounds fun," she agrees.