Page 78 of True Blue

“Don’t call her that!” I hiss, my mother flinching back at the anger in it. The protective urge rises inside of me, burning brighter and hotter than I’ve ever felt it.

“It’s true, Theodore. She left in the middle of the night, without even saying goodbye. And she said the cruelest thing to me before she went⁠—”

“What did she say?” I desperately demand, hoping that maybe it will give an explanation, a clue, something to tell me where she went.

Mom misunderstands, thinking I’m angry on her behalf, because she sniffs, dabbing delicately at her tear-filled eyes.

“It was horrible,” she sniffs, taking a deep breath. “She said she felt sorry for me.”

I feel sorry for you.

“How do you do it?”

“What do you mean?” Indie asked, tilting her head up from my chest to meet my eyes.

“How do you… tell someone that they’re going to die.”

Indie sobered, then grew contemplative. “You think of how you’d want to be told—gentle, but firm enough they understand. Then I tell them I’m sorry this happened. Not that I’m sorry for them. The difference matters. One is empathy; the other can sound… cruel. It doesn’t matter about your intent.”

I just stared at her. “You’re amazing.”

“I’m a doctor,” she shrugged.

I shook my head.

“You’re Indie.”

It’s like I can see the woman clearly in front of me for the first time because it was deserved. Or maybe it’s not that I’m seeing her clearly; it’s that I've seen this all along and was scared to set boundaries. Too scared of what she would do if I did set a boundary. I don’t know which one is worse. My ignorance or my negligence.

Doesn’t matter because both ended up with me losing Indie.

“She broke up with you, baby,” Mom whispers tenderly.

Broke up with me.

Indie broke up with me.

She didn’t say the words, but she didn’t need to.

The look on her face after what I said last night—devastation and betrayal so vicious it ripped all the light from her eyes—was enough.

I did that. I destroyed her.

How could I think I could apologize my way out of this? That I could make up for throwing her biggest trauma in her face? I said those words only to hurt her after feeling backed into a corner, answering questions that made my skin burn because they were true.

I can’t even stop it. The nausea wins, and with my mother standing right in front of me, I double over and vomit on her shirt and pants without warning.

She jumps back in alarm, shrieking, and her abrupt motion makes the mess drip down her legs, onto her shoes, then to the expensive marble tile she loves to brag about.

“Theodore!” she screams, the sound bouncing off the kitchen walls and making my head throb even more. “Look at this mess! The guests will be here in six hours! Go get a mop and clean this—where are you going?”

To the front door that I burst out of, my stomach dropping when I see—or rather don’t see—Indie’s car parked. My head swivels left to right, hoping that maybe she parked further down the block. No. This neighborhood is full of BMWs, Mercedes, Audis, and decked-out pickup trucks like my dad’s.

Indie’s Subaru is nowhere to be found.

The nausea rises again, my legs buckle, and I collapse to my knees on the front lawn, unable to hold myself up any longer.

This is agony.