Page 82 of Run Home

Locking my apartment door, I jog down to my car, trying to hold back tears. Starting the engine, I let my mind switch into autopilot for the drive I know by heart.

I know I’m running away. Running away from what just happened with Adrian. Running away from facing the truth of how I just messed up my whole life.

I’m running, but I don’t care.

I need to go home.

Three and a half silent, detached hours later, I knock on the door.

When it swings open, my mom takes one look at my face and says, “Oh, honey.”

Bursting into tears, I bury myself in her embrace.

“I messed it up, Mom,” I sob. She leads me far enough into the house to close the door, then holds me as I break down.

When I finally manage to choke in enough breaths to stem the sobs, Mom leads me to the kitchen and hands me a glass of water. I gulp down half of it, and she asks me, “Banana or apple?”

Shaking my head, I begin, “I don’t want—”

Mom gives me a chastening look. “Blood sugar, Sammi. You need to eat a few bites of something at least. Regulate your body.”

Sighing, I say, “Banana.”

My mom lets me off the hook after eating only half of it and finishing the glass of water. We walk to the living room, and she sits down at one corner of the couch, placing a throw pillow on her lap. “Come on.”

Sitting next to her, I release my ponytail, lay my head on the pillow, and pull my knees up, curling into the fetal position. Mom starts massaging my scalp, gently teasing her fingers through my hair. “I know today is never good. But what happened, sweetie?”

My face crumples as new tears spring to my eyes, and I wipe them away. “I think I messed things up with Adrian. I’m too messed up. He’s never going to want me like this.”

“Why would you think that, Sammi? I think it’s pretty clear to all of us that he’s crazy about you,” Mom says gently.

“Not anymore. Not when I’m plain crazy,” I state bitterly.

Mom’s fingers pause. “Honey, statements like that don’t help. They’re not true, and they don’t move you forward. Tell me what happened without putting yourself down like that.”

Sighing, I explain the entire morning. Adrian showing up, finding me in my typical August-twelfth depression. Him trying to do something sweet to distract me. The time we had at the park when I did my best to fake it, and the moment I ruined it all.

“He was trying to protect me, Mom,” I say, the tears ramping back up. “But it hurt when he pulled my arm, and my mind just—” I squeeze my eyes shut, desperate to forget. To forget this morning. My childhood. Everything.

“It’s gonna be over. I know it is. I love Adrian—it’s not only wanting to be loved this time—I love him. I finally discover what love really is, what it actually feels like, and I ruin it,” I cry, sobs returning. “I thought I’d made enough progress. I thought I’d grown enough to be able to handle a relationship. But I’ll never make enough progress. I’ll never not be messed up. Adrian doesn’t deserve this.”

I hear in her sigh that my mom is biting her tongue to keep from scolding me for making more unhelpful statements. Instead, she says, “I hear you that you feel that way, Sammi. That you feel like you messed up and Adrian won’t want to continue your relationship. But I want you to tell me what actually happened. Tell me what he said. What did he do afterward?”

Covering my face with my hands, another torrent of tears unleashes. “He told me he still likes me. He promised he wasn’t leaving. He offered to drive me to Griffin’s house or to miss the game today so he could stay with me. He asked me what I needed him to do, but I didn’t know what to tell him.”

“You’ve always had a hard time telling people what you need,” Mom says, and I go still. Her fingers continue scratching my scalp as she adds, “I think most of the time you don’t even know what you need. You sure didn’t know when you were young.”

Sniffing hard, I think about her assertion. I think about all the times I bottled up what I needed at any given moment as a child—afraid to be a burden, afraid to draw attention to myself by needing something. Constantly afraid. Going without was better than bringing it up.

I think about my second life here in the West family. I can’t name a single time that I felt like my parents weren’t meeting my needs. I didn’t always receive their love easily, but that was never because they didn’t give it.

“Then how did you know? I never felt neglected by you or Dad. How did you know what I needed if I didn’t even know?” I ask.

“I learned to read between the lines with you,” she says. “You would give these tiny cries for help that didn’t sound like cries if you weren’t listening closely.”

My brow furrows, but I don’t move my head from the pillow, too calmed by her fingers massaging my head. “I don’t understand.”

“Do you remember why I started scratching your head in the first place?” she asks, and the furrow deepens.