Deeper Than Desire

Finn

Somewhere down on the floor, my cell vibrates. I briefly consider ignoring it and enjoying my Libby high, but it could be my mom. I roll over and push aside clothing until I find my jeans. My cell's in the back pocket and I shake it out, check the screen.

It is my mom.

I sit up and thumb the answer button. "Hey. How're you feeling?"

"Tired." There's a smile in her voice though and it makes me smile. "I wanted to say hi."

I cradle the phone a little closer. "Hi."

"Are you having a good weekend? Are you doing anything fun with Libby?"

For a minute, the back of my neck goes all hot and I'm convinced she knows exactly what kind of 'fun' we've just been having. You're an idiot, I tell myself. "Nothing big," I tell her. "Just hanging out."

"Have you talked to your dad?"

Ah. So that's what this is about. I ease off the bed and retreat to the armchair Libby keeps in the corner of her room. Tripp's sleeping on it and I have to nudge him off so I have somewhere to sit. He glares at me and gets back in bed with Libby. "You know I haven't talked to him."

"You're right. Sorry." She pauses. "Honey? Please come by? I'm not...I'm not doing well and—"

Cold sweat breaks out between my shoulder blades. "What do you mean 'not doing well'?"

"I mean...I mean they're upping my treatments. The next few months are going to be hell. Absolute hell."

"I'll be there for you."

"I know. I know you will, but it would mean the world to me if you two could stop fighting."

Fucking story of my life, I think, slouching deeper into the armchair. "Then he needs to be different."

"He isn't going to change."

It's true. In order for this to work, I have to change. To be the son he wants, I have to be someone I don't want. She knows that. We both know that.

But it's basically what she's asking me to do—to play along—and for her...how could I not?

I pass one hand over my face and notice once again Libby is even more beautiful when she's sleeping. Her long hair lies across the pillow in shining loops and her face is relaxed, content.

"Honey?" My mom brings me back and I shake myself. "Will you come?"

If I go now, I could be back before Libby wakes. I take deep breath, but it doesn't do anything to ease the cramp in my chest. "I'm on my way."

***

Architectural Digest once called our house 'a vision of warm lights and airy spaces,' but right now it's dark and the four-stories seem impossibly close to the ground. I take the looping driveway around to main house's garage and park by my mom's Range Rover.

I don't think she's driven in months, but they keep it at the ready in case she changes her mind.

Or suddenly gets better.

The reminder spikes sour points in the back of my mouth and I stride across the courtyard and into the house. The kitchen's dark. The sitting room's dark. The sunroom, the study, the open-air foyer, all dark.

Then I hear faint piano notes and know they're in the music room.

I turn, heading down another hallway and eventually seeing golden light pooling on the carpet. I step inside just as my mom finishes some classical melody I should probably know (and don't) and my father sets down his financial reports.