Page 215 of Always Love You More

Wondering how much longer it’ll be until there are no more pieces of me left to put back together.

Chapter 50

Jameson

“Jameson!”mymotherhollersfrom the kitchen. “Have you seen my keys? I thought they were—”

“Here,” I say, holding them out for her as she breezes into the living room. “You left ’em on the coffee table.”

Her shoulders drop as she takes them from me. “Thanks,” she murmurs, brushing her hand across my arm. “What would I do without you?”

When I don’t respond, her face falls before she quickly forces a smile.

She’s been trying lately—I’ll give her that—but things are still strained between us. It’s almost harder for me when she’s doing well than it is when she’s spiraling. At least then I know what to expect. When she’s like this, I’m just waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under me.

Each time I try to grip onto hope, I hate myself for being so naïve.

“You gonna be home for dinner?” she asks.

I shrug. “Not sure yet.”

“Are you, um …?” She swallows, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear nervously. “Are you doin’ okay?”

I’m not sure how to even respond to that, so I don’t. Instead, I say, “You’re gonna be late for work.”

She watches me for a moment, her mouth opening as if to say something before she thinks better of it and nods, turning for the door. It slams shut behind her, the sound rattling through the house.

My mind starts to spin about how I handled that, if I was too harsh, too cold. If I should have just thrown her a fucking line.

She’s trying, I remind myself.

But then I remember how many times she’s tried before.

How many chances do you give someone before you become the idiot who keeps handing them out?

I push the thoughts of my mother away, bringing my focus back to Sam and the shit we just went through.

It took everything in me to drop her off at that house this morning, to leave her with her father and Carson.

On the phone, I knew she wasn’t telling me the full story, and I’ve been waiting ever since for her to call me back.

I just got home about fifteen minutes ago, but with each minute that passes, I’m only becoming more worried.

I shouldn’t have left.

Pacing throughout the living room, I grip my phone, waiting for it to ring.

“Fuck it,” I mutter to myself after another five minutes passes then dial her number.

I let out a breath when she picks up on the second ring, but the tension I just let go of quickly comes back when I hear her voice break. “Hey,” she croaks.

“Are you crying?”

She clears her throat. “No.”

“Baby,” I press, “why are you crying? What happened? Do I need to—”

“Stop,” she cuts me off. “You’ve gotta stop.”