harris
I barely acknowledge Mom when she walks through the front door, although the pet carrier in her hand piques my interest. I'm wearing my same sweatshirt from last night and flannel PJ bottoms, wrapped up in a blanket on the couch. I feel weird. Wrong. Discombobulated, one might say.
Mom stares at the TV and puts the pet carrier on the ground, her brow furrowed. Then she looks at me. I stare back at her for a second before turning my eyes back to the screen.
"What's wrong?" Mom asks. She's wearing one of her nicer tops, a flowy boho kind of blouse that Grandma and I bought her a few birthdays or Christmases ago. Her hair is down for once, and I'm surprised to see that she doesn't look quite as tired as usual, even though I'm pretty sure she's not wearing makeup. (Although I'm usually bad at guessing that, gotta say.)
I turn to my back so that I'm facing her properly. "What?"
"What's wrong?" she repeats, crossing her arms and leaning against the front door to shut it. Her hand slips behind her and locks it, and then she's right back there, arms crossed.
"Nothing is wrong," I tell her, even though things do not feel right. But I don't know why they don't feel right, so it's not like there's anything I can do about it. "Why would something be wrong?"
"You're watching Finding Nemo," she says, nodding at the TV. "Spill the beans."
I sit up straighter, mimicking her arm folding. "I'm sorry, how is Finding Nemo indicative of something being wrong?"
"Because," she says slowly, "you only watch this freaking movie when you're sad and want an excuse to cry."
"What? No I do not."
She sighs. "Yes, Harris, yes you do. You watch this, or Dumbo, or Brave."
"To be fair, Brave always makes me cry. So if something was reeeaaally wrong and I wanted to cry, I'd be listening to Merida say, 'I love you, mummy.' But I'm not, am I?"
"Fine then," she says, something like disappointment or sadness flashing momentarily in her eyes, "don't tell me."
"What's in the crate?" I ask her, just so we don't have to talk about this anymore.
She looks down at it, her eyebrows raised in surprise, like she somehow forgot it was there. I can see a blanket poking out from between the wired gate. There's definitely something in there.
"A puppy," she says slowly. "His name is Peaches."
"Peaches is not a boy puppy name."
"Um, fuck you, you sexist pig? I'm the mom, and I say Peaches."
I'm sitting up at full attention now. "Well, can I see Peaches?"
Mom rolls her eyes at me, but she grants my request, stooping down and opening the crate door. "Are you awake, bobo?" she whispers. "Awe you sweeping?"
"Ew. Please don't baby talk the dog."
She turns her head to glare at me. She totally gets that expression from Grandma. "Again. I am the mom. Fuck you."
"What if we just call him Bobo instead of Peaches?"
"This is my dog, not yours. And I say Peaches, goddammit."
Then she reaches inside the crate and pulls out a very much awake, golden-furred puppy.
"Oh my god," I say, "why is he so cute?"
He really is. He blinks slowly at us, turning his head to take in the living room, then yawns, his little puppy fat rolling in my mom's hands. "Why on earth did you buy a dog?" I ask. No way this was a good decision. And my mom usually makes only good decisions. "I'm leaving soon. Who's going to take care of it?"
Again, another Mom Glare. "This was a gift from a coworker and a friend," she says slowly, bending to set Peaches on the ground with a sigh. "I'm off the night shift starting in August. It'll be regular old nine-to-five for me before you're even gone."
I stand up. "Are you kidding me? Mom, that's amazing."
"Thanks, hon. Dinner tonight? To celebrate?" she asks, finally smiling.
Peaches waddles over to me. "Fuuuuck yes!" I look down at the puppy in front of me. "Sorry. Frick, Peaches, frick. Swearing is bad."
Mom sits down on the couch. "So. What did you get up to while I was gone?" Before I can answer, she adds, "No partying, right?"
"No partying," I assure her, before bending down to scoop Peaches up in my arms. His fur is unbelievably soft. "I don't think I'm gonna party anymore this summer, honestly."
"Really?" she asks, observing me with a cool, motherly side-eye. "Or are you just saying that?"
I get why she'd question if I meant it or not. I've never been the type to just say things to get her off my back—she knows that. But I also have never completely shut down my partying. I just ... I really don't feel like seeing anyone. My closest friend was Liam, and now, I have Saanvi and Seb. What else could I need? Being everyone's friend in high school was awesome, but kind of exhausting. I like this much more. "Believe me, I'm all good."
Mom sits there, watching me stroke the silky soft fur next to Peaches' ear. "What happened at that party, baby?"
I glance up at her. It's like I can feel myself about to throw up all over again. "Nothing," I promise/lie.
"Are you sure about that?" She leans forward, grabs the remote, and pauses the movie, right as the seagulls begin to shout MINE MINE MINE. "You know you can tell me anything, and I won't judge you, right?"
My insides are heating up. My skin itches. I want to tell her. But I also don't know that she won't judge me. What if she thinks I'm an idiot for not casting Liam away beforehand, when there were so many red flags, alongside her many, repeated warnings and expressions of hatred directed toward him? The last thing I want right now is an "I told you so."
My fingers feel frozen stiff again. She'd be so disappointed in me. Disappointed in me for drinking a dangerous amount. Disappointed in me for not being more cautious. Disappointed because I didn't do anything to try and stop it, because I should never have been friends with Liam in the first place, because I didn't do anything that should make her proud to have a fuck-up like me as her son.
But then, she asks it. "Who hurt you?"
Peaches nuzzles his wet nose into my fingers, then licks my knuckles. I have to force myself not to jerk my hand away, just keep stroking him instead. My throat feels all swollen up. "I.... No one, Mom."
We both know I'm lying.
"You don't have to tell me," Mom says. Her voice is soft. "But know that, if you do want to tell me, I'm here. I'm listening. And I'm here to help you with whatever you need, Harris."
I'm fighting back tears now, forcing myself to stare at only Peaches and his little wagging tail. "It was...." Do I want to tell her? Should I? What the best course of action is here, I couldn't possibly tell you. I swallow the lump in my throat down. It's painful. "It was Liam."
She sucks in a sharp breath but says nothing. Her silence is enough to let me know she wants me to continue.
"That night Evan punched me in the face, Liam tried to...." The words still feel so strange on my tongue. But I've already started. His name has already left my lips. There's no going back now. "He tried to assault me."
"Did he get ... all the way?" Mom's voice is sharp. "You have to let me know if he did, honey."
"He didn't," I assure her. "My friends Saanvi and Seb stopped it and brought me home. I was a mess, so that's why Seb stayed the night."
"So that boy who was leaving was Seb?"
"Yeah."
"And he stayed to keep an eye on you overnight?"
"Mmhmm." Peaches snuggles into the folds of my sweatshirt, pressing his forehead against my stomach while his tail wags so hard, his butt wiggles along with it.
She sighs. "I wondered if something like that had happened, but I figured you'd come to me about it when you were ready, and then ... you just didn't. I'm sorry. Thank you for telling me, honey."
"Yeah, of course. No problem." Tears prick the backs of my eyes, but I refuse to cry now. My nose is threatening to run as well, and I really don't feel like having a big, snotty cry land on this cute little puppy.
But one tear does leak out, and then Mom is reaching out, pulling me into her. Peaches scampers off my lap. "Come here," she mutters, squeezing me tight against her like she used to when I was really little. "Are you okay? Do you want to see a therapist? File a report?"
"I don't want to file a report." I haven't even thought about it, but ... yeah, that's not what I want to do.
"Why?" Mom asks. "Honey, there's no shame in coming forward. Women aren't the only ones who face assault, but either way, you're not alone."
"No, I just, is there really a point?"
"What do you mean?"
"I just don't see anything big coming from it," I tell her. "Like, it can't be a long sentencing, even if we can prove he did anything, and I feel like it would be more hassle than it's worth. I don't feel like being gaslit and spending a bunch of money, just so Liam can have his name on a list, best case scenario."
Mom's gaze is steady and even. "Are you sure? You don't have to decide right now, although sooner is probably better."
"I'll take the therapy. But I don't want to file anything."
"If you're sure...." Mom says, trailing off. "It's your choice, baby."
"It's okay. I'll be okay," I promise. "Besides, Evan Miller—Neil's son—and his friends apparently kinda beat the crap out of him. After Saanvi kicked the shit out of his elbow. So I feel like he kinda got his."
Mom's mouth is a tight line. I can tell she doesn't necessarily approve of all of this, but you know what? She's right. This is my decision. And I've been feeling a lot better about it.
"Can we talk about something else?" I ask her.
"Sure," Mom says. "So, are you and that Seb boy dating?"
Oof. That one hits a little different right now. "Um, not exactly."
"You're using protection?"
Ugh. "Yes."
"Okay. Well, I still want you to come in and get an STI screening soon, just to make sure you're protecting yourself and this Seb, okay?"
"Why can we not have normal mother-son conversations?"
"This is very normal. I am doing a very good job. I think."
"You would." It sounds snarky, but I can't begrudge her this. Not when there's been such a weight lifted off my chest. I didn't realize how much this hurt—not telling her. I mean, she's my mom. I want to tell her everything, even when I can't. Keeping this to myself was too much. But it's done. It's done, and I'm okay. I'm going to be okay. My throat hurts, it's so tight, and the backs of my eyes are on fire, but I'm okay.
I smile at her. "But yeah. You're doing a very good job, Mom." I hope that, right now, she can feel the unspoken words I've just said. I love you.