Forgotten Promises (The Promises Series Book 2) (19 page)

“You came to meet me that day because your mom had just given you some pretty big news, Ethan. We sat at the beach for hours and talked through it.”

“Blair, just tell me.”

“God, I wish I wasn’t the one doing this to you. Okay, the reason you came to meet me and talk that day…was because your mom had told you that she wasn’t…” I wipe my palms across my jeans and look away. I don’t want to see the effects of the words I’m about to utter. “She told you she wasn’t your mom.”

Silence.

I’ve always enjoyed it until now. The tension in the room is unbearable as I wait for him to respond, but he doesn’t. We sit quietly for minutes that feel like hours. I can’t take it. I think I’d prefer it if he were shouting at me.

“I think you should leave.”

My head snaps up from the floor and I look at him. His face is completely devoid of any emotion, and it's scary as hell.

“What?”

“You heard me, Blair. I need to be alone. I’ll call you later,” he says walking over to the family room door and holding it open.

My heart sinks and my stomach rolls as I stand.

“Ethan, I—”

“Don’t. Okay, just don’t. I’ll call you later.”

I feel the heat of my tears ready to erupt as I brush past him and make my way to the front porch. The door is closed behind me before I have another chance to change his mind.

The smell of hot cocoa permeates the house as I close the back door behind me and move into the kitchen.

“Oh, honey you scared me,” Mom says as she turns and finishes making her drink. I don’t want to speak. I know that the second I do she’ll here the scratchiness in my voice and demand that I tell her what’s wrong.

“I’m making cocoa, would you like…” Her words stick as she looks up and gets a closer look at my tear-stained puffy face.

“Oh, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” she asks, moving the pan from the stove and rushing around the island to envelope me in a warm hug.

“I told him about his mom.”

I don’t need to say anything else; it’s blatantly obvious by my presence that it didn’t go well. Mom strokes my hair and makes soothing shushing noises as I cry into her shoulder. I know I have only myself to blame, but I’m too tired to not indulge in the pity party I’m currently throwing myself.

“Here,” she says leading me to take a seat. “Nothing cheers a person more than chocolate.” She walks over to the counter and pours two mugs of cocoa before reaching into the cupboard and pulling out jars and packets.

“Ah-ha,” she says, retrieving a bottle of Irish Crème Liquor and adding two big slugs to the drinks. She looks up as she pours and fixes me with a stare.

“I better not catch you doing this when I’m not here,” she motions to the alcohol. “You’ll be in trouble, understand?”

I give her a weak smile and nod.

“Good. Now, do we go for oatmeal and raisin?” she asks, pulling a pack of cookies from the cupboard and placing them down on the counter. “Or double chocolate chip?”

“Bring on the double chocolate chip. You just said chocolate makes everything better, right?”

She gives a little huff as she walks over and places a mug in front of me along with the full pack of cookies. “It’s a temporary fix, but let’s worry about that later.”

THE SOFT STRAINS of music fill the small room and begin to settle my anxiety, just like it always does. Sitting at my piano has constantly been an escape for me. From the moment my mom began to teach me at the age of four, I’ve loved it. I don’t need to think about anything other than the music—how long the next note is, what rhythm it requires, and how loud to play it. There’s no space for the monsters that lurk at the back of my mind once my fingers touch the keys of the Steinway. My concentration isn’t focused on not annoying my dad, or worrying that I’m failing at this and that, or not doing well enough in some other area, because I know I can play. It comes naturally, and thankfully, it’s probably the only aspect of my life my dad hasn’t tainted and ruined.

My fingers stretch over the ivories as I play Debussy’s
Clair de Lune
. Pain shoots through my wrist as my hands travel from key to key, but I don’t care. I’ve sat down to this piano in far worse physical states, but I always play consistently. It’s one of the first songs that showcased how well I could perform. Mom cried the first time I made it through the entire piece without a mistake. She’d told me that I was born to do this. It’s the one memory I have of her that I actually cherish. I bring the piece to its end and rest my head on my arms against the cold wood. It takes seconds for the blanket the music has provided to slip away and leave me feeling cold and exposed. My mom's little secret creeps back into my head, and the vision of Blair breaking it to me makes its way to the forefront of my mind.

How could she? Why didn’t she tell me sooner?

I can’t take any more. I push away from the piano and slam every door I walk through until I’m out in the back yard. I take a deep breath, willing the crisp air to clear the mess and destruction that Mom and Blair have created in my brain. I stare out at the pool house and suddenly I’m overcome with memories of Blair and me in there, watching movies. I’m not sure what triggered them, but they put me on my ass. I don’t know which way is up when I think about her now. I love her so much, but I can't understand how she could know something as important as my mom’s admissions and not tell me. Surely, if she felt even half of what I feel for her, she’d have said something sooner.

I stomp back into the house and go straight to the medicine cabinet. I grab the first pack of painkillers I can find and swallow two without water. The chalkiness sticks to my throat as I try and force them down, leaving a horrible taste in my mouth. There’s a half-f bottle of beer that one of the guys has left open on the island. I reach over and take a long pull to get rid of the artificial taste filling my mouth. I need this pain to stop. I’m not even sure if it’s a headache or heartache anymore. All I know is that I hate it.

More things to chalk up as dipshit things to do:

#1 Take painkillers that aren’t prescribed to you.

#2 Wash them down with alcohol.

#3 Scroll through pictures of your hot girlfriend when mad at her. Then drink more to try and wash away the hurt.

#4 Trash your room in a drunken rage.

#5 Leave no water by the bed when you know you’re gonna wake up with a hangover from hell and your mouth tasting like ass.

I feel like crap, I look like crap, and according to the alarm that’s upside down in the middle of the floor amidst the war zone that is now my bedroom, it’s 2:10 pm. I have five minutes to get to my appointment, collect my meds and check in with the doctors.

CRAP!

I leave the house looking like a homeless person. I’ve brushed my teeth and changed my clothes, and that’s about it. I was obviously still drunk when I did, because I thought I looked okay until some kid in the reception area of the doctor’s office told me I’d put my shirt on inside out. Getting schooled by a six-year-old about how to dress was not the highlight of my day. Neither was Dr. Hardy’s reaction when she smelled the alcohol on my breath, and then found out I’d been taking my dad’s Codeine pills to try stop my headaches. There was a point when I thought that maybe she wouldn’t let me leave again. She looked a lot less than happy with me.

After scheduling my physiotherapy appointments for my wrist and booking in to see the brain doc, I’m on my way over to Jackson’s. I’m driving in silence, since my head still feels like it’s in a damn vice, when my mom’s call comes through. I fully intended to ignore it until the pent-up anger surfaced and it was all I could do to pull over and not hit answer and immediately start shouting at her.

“Yeah?” I know it's not the politest way to answer a call, but she’s lucky I’m not answering with a string of cusses.

“Oh, thank heavens! I’ve been calling the house all morning and your cell has been diverting me straight to your voice mail.”

“What do you want, Mom?”

“To know how you are. Susan called me this morning and told me that Blair had gone home last night in tears after telling you about me.” Her voice is quiet, like she’s whispering.

“Where are you, what’s with the hushed tone?”

“You know where I am—at the hospital. I’ve just left your dad's room; I didn’t want him hearing our conversation.”

I’m not sure why, but her words seem to be exactly the wrong ones at the wrong time. “Who gives a shit if he hears you! It should be me that you're worried about, not that asshole hearing you tell me that I’m not your goddamn son! Jeez, you’re unbelievable.”

“Calm down, Ethan. Let me explain. Please?”

“What can you possibly have to explain? Don’t you think you’ve done enough? No, wait, that’s wrong. You haven’t done enough. You have never done enough when it comes to me!” The venom behind my words is all too evident, and I hear her gasp at my outburst.

“I’m coming home,” she tells me. “We need to talk and not over the phone. I’ll catch a flight later today.”

“Do whatever the hell you want, Moira!” I know I'm an ass when I call her by her name, but I don’t care. I want her to hurt. She deserves to feel as shitty as I do.