Endless (Reckless #2)

Endless - Chapter Four

She’s the one who left. She’s the one who ran away from her problems. She’s the one who f*cked my life up when she walked into it.

She lied. She ran. And she quit.

If I ever saw her again, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive her.

***

“Nash?”

I stop mid-track at my mother’s voice. I haven’t seen her that much these past few weeks. We’ve only talked when we were leaving or just getting home. Usually, she would be passed out in her room when I walk in way past midnight.

My mother and I never had the mother-son bond that most families have. H*ll, we still don’t. She’s tried to talk to me, but I’ve avoided her. I don’t have anything to say to her. And I don’t want to hear anything she has to say.

When my father passed away, she was broken. She lost the one thing that kept her sanctioned. At the funeral, we sat at the front, a wide distance between us. I didn’t cry; she did. I didn’t comfort her; she cried even more. We didn’t talk much after that: not about my father, not about her, not about me.

I never understood how she still loved him after she constantly watched him beat the sh*t out of me, but she did; I could see it in her eyes. It was how I wanted someone to look at me, love beaming in their eyes. But no one ever did.

That is, until Adelaide.

I can still picture those sea green eyes sparkling up at me, a radiating smile crossing those beautiful, full lips. Those eyes captivated me, drew me in and swallowed me up; they were the first thing I noticed about her. And now, now they’re just a faint memory.

“Who else would it be?” I say, causing her to wince.

She’s sitting at the kitchen table, her hands clasped together. Looking over at the clock on the stove, I take note of the time: 12:45 at night. I came home earlier than usual, but Kane was too wasted and too engrossed in a new girl. So I decided to leave, not wanting another desperate girl to throw themselves at me.

“You know he loved you,” my mother says.

My brows scrunch, and I finally take note of my surroundings. Pictures are spread all over the table. Tears trail down her cheeks. The faint glow of the kitchen is the only light on in the house.

She continues before I have the chance to ask what the h*ll she means, “In a way, he did love and care about you; even if he didn’t show it.”

I stay planted in the kitchen doorway, not sure what to say or do. My body is stiff at the conversation she brought up. He didn’t love me. He didn’t care about me. He hardly acknowledged my existence.

So why the h*ll is she bringing him up?

“I remember this day. You were mad because you couldn’t get the chord right. You insisted on playing it over and over until you got it perfect,” tears are streaming down her face, and I just stand there, watching her break down. “You were always so determined.”

My mind drifts back to that day; I remember it well. It used to be my favorite day. I was seven. My father taught me one of the hardest chords, and, no matter what, I couldn’t master it. But we kept playing it, and I finally got it. It was then that I finally felt like someone my dad could be proud of.

And he was; he told me he was proud of me that day. But a few years later, after drowning himself in alcohol, that all changed. He told me that I was a disappointment; that I was a waste of space and money.

“You always said that you wanted to be just like him,” a flash of pain and regret paints her face. “That is, before he started drinking.”

Without thinking, I go over to her and take a seat on the other side of the table. I don’t want to be close to her. I don’t want to see those pictures. But I want something that I know I need; something that Adelaide taught me that is important.