Page 124 of Hate You More

“What? Never mind.” I should’ve expected this. The older my mother gets, the harder she seems to work for a sainthood. “I’m gonna say something, and I want you to hear me out. I don’t want you jumping to conclusions or thinking the worst, okay?”

“This sounds like something I should sit down for,” she murmurs, and I hear the scrape of a chair.

I take a breath. “Me and Clara, we got married last week. A courthouse thing. It’s legally binding but not real. It’s not a love thing.”

I expect a sharp intake of breath. A dramatic cry or complaint, but maybe nothing as damning as a keening lament or a beating of her breast. So when she says “Oh,” I think I’m disappointed.

“You don’t have to say it. I know what she is.” Is it ridiculous I suffer a pang of distress at this spoken disloyalty? “I remember what she did.”

There’s a clink on her end. It sounds ceramic. Probably a mug of tea. The Lipton brand with a little cardamon. Or maybe zhourat shamia if she’s feeling fancy.

“Ma? You still there?” Fuck, maybe I should’ve tried to keep this thing with Clara under wraps for her sake.

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” This pulls me up short.

“What? Why not?”

“I’m sure you have your reasons. Both of you. My son, you’ve been doing your own thing since you were old enough to express an opinion,” she says with just a hint of pique. “Your mind was always like a tightly locked door that only opened when you wanted it to.”

“Ma.” I’m not sure if that was an appeal or a reprimand.

“It’s not a criticism. I know you wouldn’t hurt her.”

That . . . wasn’t what I braced for.

“What about her hurting me? Aren’t you worried she might do that again?”

“I’m your mother,” she says. “I’m always worried. But it’s not the same.”

I lean back against my chair and exhale a slow breath. “It’s complicated,” I say, choosing the words carefully.

His mother hums. “Life is rarely simple.” She pauses. “Just be careful with her.”

“Be careful with her or be careful of her?”

“You heard me just fine.”

I frown. “She’s not some precious china doll.” This is not going the way I expected.

“She was the only one in that house to show me any kindness. I always felt sorry for her.”

I go still. Almost rigid. The woman cleaning the floors felt sorry for the Park Avenue princess? “Why—why’d you feel sorry for her?” I demand. After everything, this should not be my mother’s response.

“I know she was a little wild, but I saw that for what it was. She wanted attention, Troy. She needed love. There was none in that house,” she adds, her voice turning hard.

My eyes shutter as I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Don’t make excuses for her.”

“Things aren’t always how they seem, son.”

“And sometimes they’re exactly as you should’ve expected,” I snap.

“And I did wonder about the ten thousand dollars,” she adds almost casually.

“What ten thousand dollars?”

“I told you I had a little windfall a few months after you went back to college.”

“I don’t . . . I don’t remember that.” At that point, I was fighting to get Table to seed stage, my mind only half on my studies. And my heart still smarting over Clara.