My attempts to stop the dull ache in my chest have been an utter failure.
I still try to enjoy my visit home in peace, though. Or as much peace as there can be, considering the circumstances.
Mum and I are preparing dinner together, something we’ve done since I was a child. Uncle Kirian—my mother’s younger brother—would usually join us, but he’s traveling. Hopefully, I’ll be able to see him before I go back to school.
I’m sitting at the prep table while Mum is behind me, stirring ingredients on the stove.
“Pass me the salt, sweet pea,” she says, distracted.
Her hair is pulled up in a messy chignon with green highlights peeking out from everywhere. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s always had some green in her hair. Sometimes, it’s fully green. Other times, like now, it’s brown with green streaks.
She’s wearing a knee-length floral dress, and, you guessed it, a green apron.
Papa remodeled the kitchen into a chef’s dream when I was a toddler. It’s full of stainless-steel equipment, a large food-prep area, and it’s green-themed like Mum.
This is where I’ve often dabbled in internet recipes with Mum while Papa joins in just to annoy us, makes a mess out of the kitchen, and then stays to watch with a massive grin on his face.
The only reason he’s not doing that right now is because Mum sent him to get us a few things we’re missing.
I place the salt cellar in her hand, and she starts to put some in, then stops. “Cecy, hon, this is pepper.”
“Bollocks. Sorry.” I snap out of it and give her the appropriate cellar.
She shakes her head with a smile and adds the salt as I sit down again and get busy chopping the vegetables. I’m thankful she’s busy and can’t see my expression that I’m sure would give me away.
Mum always makes sure we do mother-daughter activities together. We cook, do yoga, watch movies, and shop. Though I’m not a big fan of the latter. She also plays the perfect role of my solicitor whenever Papa kicks up the overprotectiveness a notch and forbids me from doing things because they’re ‘dangerous’ for me.
It means a lot to me that we’ve always been so close, but not when she can read me. I really hate that part.
“Is everything okay back there?” she asks, glancing at me over her shoulder.
“Grand, yeah.”
“Is there anything you want to tell me, hon?”
“What? No, of course not.” I certainly don’t want to tell her about a certain guy who’s flipping my world upside down while I’m along for the ride.
I last saw Jeremy yesterday after I got embarrassingly drunk, kissed him, and told him I’d miss him, then crashed in his bed. I snuck out of his room like a thief, then mistakenly walked in on Killian and Glyn making out in the game room and on Nikolai floating in the pool wearing nothing but boxers. I thought he was dead, so I frantically called Ilya, but it turns out, the incident was normal for the guy.
All in all, my sneaking-out session ended up with me seeing almost everyone in the Heathens’ compound before leaving. But hey, at least Jeremy didn’t catch me.
Now, I’m not sure if that was such a great idea. Because what I said is true. I do miss him. And I only got here yesterday.
“Cecy!”
“W-what?” I jump up and wince when I realize I’ve cut myself, and blood is dripping on the cutting board and some of the vegetables.
Mum snatches a tissue and presses it on my bleeding finger, her hand shaking. She’s always had this overboard reaction whenever I’m bleeding, even if it’s a minor cut. Papa, too. I think it has to do with the scars on her wrists, which is why I’ve never blamed them for being too overprotective.
“I’m fine, Mum.” I remove the tissue, showing her that the bleeding has stopped. “See? It’s nothing.”
She flips my hand back and forth and only releases a breath when she ensures the cut is minor. “You need to be careful with the knife, hon.”
She’d faint if she found out what Jeremy does to me with the knife, and that I actually enjoy it.
Mum gets me a plaster from the cupboard and puts it on my finger. After she’s done, I throw away the dirtied vegetables and get new ones, then I climb on the chair to start anew. Mum puts the stove on the lowest temperature, gets her own knife, and settles across from me.
“I can do it on my own,” I tell her.
“It’ll get done faster if I help. At least I’m not distracted.”
“Who says I am?”
“You’ve zoned out a few times and you keep checking your phone in an unhealthy way. Are you waiting for a text or a call?”
“No,” I say with an awkward smile that she must read right through.
“Uh-huh.” She fixates me with that ‘I’m your mother, and I know everything about you’ look. “Your aunt Silver was here the other day and told me something interesting.”
“And what is that?”
“Ava told her you were seeing some American boy, and she asked Silver to start picking her bridesmaid dress.”
That little snitch.
I know Ava is tight with her mum and basically tells her everything, but this is different. She knows I haven’t come to terms with this. According to her, I’m just delaying the inevitable, but semantics.
“Is it true?” Mum stares at me.
I place the knife on the table to avoid accidentally cutting myself again. “It’s…complicated.”
“How complicated?” Her voice softens. “You know you can tell me anything, right? I’m always on your side.”
“Even if he…he’s not the conventional type?”
“You’re a very responsible girl, Cecy. You always were, even as a child. So much so that I was worried you wanted to get older prematurely without living your life. But that’s also why I trust you to make the right choice.”
My chest twists, and I stare at the cutting board, at the half-slaughtered vegetables, and everywhere else but at Mum’s face.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s completely fine.” She pats my hand. “Just know I’m here for you whenever you’re ready.”
She releases me and stands up to check on the food. She often does that whenever she feels like she’s pushed too much or shoved me out of my comfort zone.
Mum knows when she’s started to poke my demons and always, without doubt, steps back and gives me time to recuperate.
She hopes I’ll come to her when I’m ready, but I’ve always used that time to escape from her, to drown further into myself, and try to fix my fuck-ups on my own.
This is the first time I’ve gathered the courage so that I can use the chance she’s given me.
“I haven’t always made the right choice, Mum.” My voice is so low, lower than the water boiling on the stove and the sound of stirring she makes.
She starts to turn around, and I blurt, “Please don’t look at me. I can’t say this if you’re looking at me.”
I’m too ashamed to meet her eyes.
“Okay,” she says in an affectionate tone and remains in place.
“Remember when you told me you had a bad feeling about Jonah? You were right, Mum.”
“Is this about how he recently got arrested for assault and drugs?”
“That was the end of it. The actual story started a long time ago.”
I don’t know how I find the courage to tell her everything that happened. I tell her about that night, the sleep paralysis—which is why I locked my room so no one could see me in that state—the fear of the opposite sex, relationships, and my lack of trust in everything.
The words flow naturally, without any effort, as if they’ve been waiting all this time for me to tell Mum the truth that’s been festering inside me for so long.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Mum.” My voice is raw and brittle. “I was just so scared about those pictures becoming public and ruining your reputation. I was also terrified that you’d remind me that you’d never liked him and had encouraged me to leave him. It would’ve killed me if you’d blamed me for it or said I told you so.”
She starts to whirl around again.
“No, Mum, please. Don’t look at me when I’m like this.”
Her fingers are unsteady as she turns off the stove and faces me, eyes shining with tears, and her features as pale as I imagine mine are.
Then she comes to my side, slowly, with measured steps, and stops a few breaths away. Her chest rises and falls hard, as hard as mine, as if she can snatch my feelings and mold them into her own.
She wipes the tears sliding down my cheeks. “Why can’t I look at you like this? If the world refuses to see this version of you and the pain you went through, I will. All day. Every day.”
“You won’t say none of this would’ve happened if I’d listened to you?”
“No, because no one can be sure of what would’ve happened. He could’ve found other ways.” She strokes my cheek, my tears, and my anguish. “I want you to know and believe it wasn’t your fault, honey. None of it was.”
“But—”
“No buts, Cecily.” She’s crying, too, as much as I am, until tears stain her cheeks. “I was a victim, too, once, and the perpetrator was the one person who should’ve been protecting me.”
“Your mother?” I’ve only met her once, when she showed up at our door when I was seven, and I hated that woman at first sight. She’s a world-famous artist and had a haughty expression that rubbed me the wrong way.
She spoke to Mum as if she owned her. Papa and Uncle Kirian were there, and they kicked her out. Mum cried so much that night, and she told me that my estranged grandmother reminded her of her painful past.
Mum nods. “Yeah, so I know exactly what it means to be a victim, and if you push that energy inward, it’ll only lead to self-destruction, Cecy. You’re our little miracle, the one Xan and I had after a long journey of healing, and I know we can be very overprotective, but it’s only because we love you so much and don’t want you to go through what we did. So please don’t blame it on yourself. Take this as if I’m begging you. Blame it on us being horrible parents who didn’t see the signs.”
“No, Mum.” I jump up from my seat. “I didn’t let you see the signs. I dealt with them on my own because I thought the wound would eventually heal, but it only festered. This is not your fault.”
“It’s not yours either, Cecy.”
“I know.”
Hope blossoms between the tears like a newly planted flower. “You do?”
I nod. “It’s why I can talk about it now, you know. It took me a long time to come to terms with it, but I’ve met someone who convinced me not to deflect the blame inward. Ever since then, my own head doesn’t torture me as much and I’ve started to feel safe. I no longer have panic attacks and the instances of sleep paralysis have become few and far between.”
Mum’s hand falls from my cheek to my shoulder, and a warm smile peeks through. “Is that someone the American boy?”
I rub the side of my nose and nod. “His name is Jeremy.”
“Oh, look at you being so embarrassed at the mere mention of him.”
“Am not.”
“You just stroked your nose, which is an obvious habit you do whenever you’re embarrassed. I wonder what this Jeremy looks like. Is he handsome? Does he treat you well?”
“Yes to both.”
“Aw, why didn’t you bring him home with you?”
“He wanted to come, but I said no.”
She retrieves a tissue and wipes my tears, then frowns. “Why?”
“Remember Annika?”
“Your cute new friend?”
“Yeah, the one who’s a mafia princess.”
“Of course I do. She was so well-mannered.”
“Jeremy is her older brother.”
I pause, waiting for her to connect the links together.
“And what about it? Oh. Is Annika against this?”
“No. She doesn’t know yet. It’s…their background. Russian mafia. He’s the heir to his father’s empire. The same father who nearly killed Creigh for being with Annika?”
“I see.”
“Finally. But why do you sound so casual about it, Mum?”
“Well, to be honest, I still can’t find anything off with that. Your father certainly would, but I want to hug this Jeremy for being there for you during a difficult time and even convincing you not to think like a victim.”
“But his family is dangerous.”
“The world is dangerous, hon. But we don’t hide from it. We don’t bury our heads in the sand and pretend all is well. If you want something, either you fight for it, or you let it go so someone else can.”
“I don’t want to let him go.”
“Why not?”
“Because I love him.”
Mum smiles and I pause at the words that left my mouth so easily, so naturally, without my even having to think about it.
It’s true. I love Jeremy.
If I wasn’t sure before, all the time we’ve spent together recently has made me certain.
“There you have it, your answer.” Mum kisses the top of my head.
“But…but what if he doesn’t love me?”
“Who wouldn’t love my beautiful baby?”
“The world isn’t you and Papa, Mum.”
“All your friends, aunts and uncles, and grandfathers love you to death. You’re a sweetheart.”
“They…they don’t count either.”
She raises a brow. “Is Jeremy the only one who does?”
“No…I mean, it’s not like that…”
Mum smiles and glides her fingers through my hair. “Believe it or not, a long time ago, I also thought your father didn’t love me.”
“No way.” He basically worships the ground she walks on.
“I know. He was a real wanker when we were young, which is why he’s making it up to me for the rest of our lives.” She smiles nostalgically. “Those times feel so distant now. Guess how I knew he loved me.”
“How?”
“He fought for me. He slaughtered his demons to be with me, and that’s when I knew he didn’t only love me, but I was also the love of his life.”
My heart squeezes with both awe and admiration.
I’ve always had a huge crush on the way my parents love, appreciate, and respect one other. I’ve felt blessed to be the product of their love, despite their overprotectiveness. Now, I’m even more certain I have the best parents in the world.
“Thanks, Mum.” I hug her, and she wraps her arms around me, letting me bask in her warmth.
“No, thank you for trusting me with what happened, Cecy. I’m so proud of your strength.”
I could cry right now, but I don’t, because she’d start crying, too, and Papa might start drama if he finds out I made his wife cry.
As if sensing I’m thinking of him, Papa’s voice comes from the entrance.
“Kim, love, where’s my grandfather’s hunting shotgun? I found some bastard on our doorstep who claims to be our daughter’s boyfriend… Oh, here it is. Be right back. I’ll shoot him and come back in time for dinner.”
Mum and I pull apart to stare at each other.
Holy shit.
Please don’t tell me Jeremy followed me here.
Most importantly, did Papa say he’s going to shoot him?
