I look down my nose at her, deliberately standing taller. “I’d be scared, but I don’t think you can reach that high.”
“Callum Henry Finnigan!” She smacks my arm indignantly, huffing in faux annoyance when I grab her in a sideways hug. Her small 5‘3″ frame is engulfed by me easily. How she managed to give birth to two massive boys is a running joke in our family.
“I was being nice, Mom. What’s with the third degree?”
“Honey, you’re always nice. That’s why everyone likes you so much. But you only let some people get close. And I saw how you’re with her. It’s. . . more than nice.”
“Mom, honestly. . .”
“That’s the thing, sweetheart.” She halts, turning to look me in the eye. “You’re not being honest. You’ve forgotten how and I don’t think you realize it.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve always been such a sensitive boy, loving easily and loving hard. But, once you’re hurt, you’re keen to avoid it. And you use your incredible charm to distract everyone so they don’t realize you’re keeping an emotional distance—ever ready to cut off any attachment the moment it gets tough.”
Unease spreads beneath my skin and I rub the back of my neck in an effort to make that feeling go away. “I’m not. . .”
“Do you remember when we adopted Jack?”
“Our dog? Yeah.”
“Still miss him?”
“I do.” He was the best dog. I still have his photo in my living room.
“How old were you when we got him?” Mom asks, brushing off the moisture clinging to my jacket.
“Thirteen.”
“Ah, yes. We had three good years with him, didn’t we?”
I nod in agreement.
“I still remember the day when we went to the shelter. You took one look at Jack and decided he was ours. It didn’t matter that he was older, scared, and timid. You fell in love immediately, showed him he could trust you, and, for those three years, you were inseparable. When Jack passed, I thought you’d ask to go to the pet shelter again. What did you do? You adopted a cactus instead, because you couldn’t bear the thought of loving and losing another dog. Wouldn’t even consider it.”
“What?” I choke out in shock. I’ve been collecting plants for years but, over time, I’d forgotten how that’d begun. My surprise shows because Mom tuts at me with an affectionate sort of frustration. As if she’s tired of how obtuse I’ve been.
“You still have too many plants, honey. But none of them will give you what you really need. Puppy kisses, zoomies, walks, and companionship.”
I’m still absorbing this revelation as Mom continues. “It’s the same with relationships. I know Jenna messed with your head and it isn’t easy, but, eventually, you’ll need to take a chance and open up. When you love someone, you need to let them in all the way.”
Love?
Every sound around me fades, leaving me in a vacuum with a single word that now encompasses how I’ve been feeling for weeks.
“You can keep things casual, but it won’t ever feel enough. Especially when you’re with the right one.”
My mother’s insight is the lightning that strikes the sands of time, creating the clearest swirls of glass within which my memories are captured. From the first time I laid eyes on a woman wanting a mango mojito to our first kiss, from her shy grins to her unexpectedpresence in Vegas where I saw the scars she kept hidden—our moments play like a reel on a never-ending loop.
For all of Alia’s self-deprecating tendencies, it finally sinks in why I’ve found her so fascinating. Why, even in her weakness, I saw strength. Because she is as true to herself as she can be. She feels, fails, and lives life the way it is meant to—striving every day to be a better version of herself.
Unlike me.
Mom’s right. I’ve been shielding my real emotions under thick layers of charm, cheer, and a laissez-faire attitude about everything except hockey. I’ve been hiding like a coward. Afraid to feel, afraid to fall. Of course Alia’s comment about being a work-in-progress felt like a lifeline. I used it as an excuse to sweep every new and uncomfortable emotion under the rug and not voice the fact that I’m. . . in love.
“Honey,” Mom murmurs beside me. “Think about what I’ve said, okay? It’s time to stop chasing those—what do you call them?—puck bunnies?”
“I don’t use that term anymore.”