Page 115 of Reckless Obsession

For a moment, she says nothing. Then she reaches for my hand over the sheets and waits. I hesitate before letting her take it.

“When you were younger,” she says quietly, “before you learned how to lock everything inside yourself so neatly, you used to paint your feelings when you couldn’t say them. Sometimes it was obvious what you were trying to tell me. Sometimes it wasn’t. But it was still… a way in.”

I stare at her.

“You stopped talking to me properly these past few months,” she continues. “Not rudely or dramatically. Just… less. You became more absent in your own skin and more distant.” Her thumb strokes slowly over my knuckles, and she exhales softly. “I needed to understand if I was missing something important.”

I swallow. “So you went through my studio.”

“I went looking for my son,” she says.

There’s no defensiveness in it or any attempt to win. And annoyingly, devastatingly, that takes the edge off me.

I close my eyes for a second.

Because I know what she means. I know what kind of fear would make her step into a place she knew she shouldn’t.

When I open my eyes again, she’s still watching me carefully.

“What did you see?” I ask, though I already know.

She tilts her head slightly, like she’s choosing what to say and what to keep.

“A lot of Tristan,” she replies after a while.

I groan and let my head fall back against the pillow.

She almost smiles.

“Paintings,” she goes on. “Sketches. Studies of his hands, his profiles, his mouth.” Her brows lift very slightly. “An alarming number of versions of his mouth, actually.”

I drag my free hand over my face.

“Oh my God.”

My mother squeezes my hand once.

“I shouldn’t have gone in without asking,” she says. “I know that, and I am sorry for crossing that boundary.” A pause. “But I am not sorry for wanting to understand you.”

I lower my hand slowly and look at her.

“You could have asked.”

“I could have.” Her mouth softens. “Would you have answered?”

I open my mouth.

Then close it again.

Because no. Absolutely not. I would have lied through my teeth, changed the subject, and probably said something witty to her for good measure.

She sees the answer in my face and does not gloat. Which, frankly, is very mature of her.

“I thought so,” she murmurs.

I huff out a breath and stare at our joined hands.

After a moment, she asks, carefully, “Does he feel the same?”