She Will Be Mine (New Horizon Book 2)

Chapter 9: Ronnie

It’s a couple days before I feel ready to confront my mom about what the twins said about the guy named Warren. I know it’s technically not my business what she does in her personal life, but if she’s being open enough that my 10-year-old sisters know all about it, then why hasn’t she said anything to me?

“Hey, kid,” she calls out to me when she notices I’ve been just awkwardly hovering in the doorway to the living room.

She’s on the couch, enjoying the one glass of wine she sometimes allows herself at night when the girls are in bed, and she’s just been staring at nothing for a while. I’d be more concerned if this wasn’t her usual routine for unwinding before bed, allowing herself a moment to sit and do nothing for the first time all day.

“It’s far more comfortable on the couch,” she adds when she senses my hesitation, patting the seat next to her. “Don’t just stand there. Come sit.”

I do as she asks, feeling silly and awkward the whole time since she’s just watching me shuffle over to her. She smiles once I’m nestled in next to her, asking with her eyes whether I’d be okay with her draping an arm over my shoulders. Nobody knows me like my mom, and she must be able to see that my anxiety is pretty intense at the moment. That’s the only time she’ll bother to ask before hugging or touching me.

I nod, quietly adjusting myself to lean against her and focusing on where she’s gently rubbing my shoulder with her thumb now.

“What’s on your mind, Ronnie? I've noticed that you haven’t exactly been adjusting well to being back here. You’ve been on edge for days.”

I exhale forcefully, mentally composing my next words and hating that I’ve been that obvious. Even when I am uncomfortable, I always try to keep it to myself. She doesn’t need to be blaming herself for how worked up I get in my own head.

But it’s silly of me to even think it possible to hide anything from her. Well, other than my relationship with Clarice, which I don’t think I’ve been completely successful about keeping from her. I think she’s suspicious, but she doesn’t push, probably because she can sense that whatever it is that I do on my free days is important to me.

“There’s no one single thing,” I reveal finally. “Just a lot of stuff circling through my head. It is weird being back, though. Other than a weekend or the occasional week here and there, I’ve been away for three years, and it feels different being back this time because I know it will be for months.”

“And you feel trapped,” she surmises.

I can hear the hurt there, and I hate it. It’s not accurate, either. I don’t feel trapped. I just feel weirdly restless, which I suppose she could argue is the same thing, but it’s not.

When I was younger and lived here full-time I used to feel trapped, but it was different. I wasn’t restless then. I would say I was more like a drone, numb and blind to the world around me. There was nothing outside this house and this life for me then. But she doesn’t need to know that.

“No, not trapped,” I argue, doing my best to make it convincing. “Lost, maybe. In a weird sort of limbo even. It’s more like I don’t quite recognize myself here or know how I fit in now. Maybe it’s even that I feel a bit like an outsider.”

“Ronnie, you’ll never be an outsider here,” she insists, her arm tightening around me.

“I’m not saying that’s how you’re treating me, but I've just been having this weird transitional feeling is all,” I clarify.

But then I realize that isn’t entirely accurate, either. The whole reason I wanted to come talk to her was because I suspect that she is treating me like an outsider. So, I finally ask her the question that's been on the tip of my tongue for days:

“Who’s Warren?”

She inhales sharply and I can feel her tense beside me, obviously not expecting that. It takes her a moment to respond.

“He’s a man,” she begins to explain, drawing out the last word to give her more time to choose her next words carefully. “A really nice man who I’ve known for a few years now. He buys me dinner sometimes is all.”

“I hate when you do that,” I complain, grumbling about how she’s talking to me the way she did when I was a child. “If he buys you dinner sometimes, that means he takes you on dates, which means you’re dating him. I’m not five, and I can handle the truth.”

I wiggle out of her embrace, jumping to my feet so I can pace the room because that restless feeling is only intensifying now, and I feel the need to physically let it out.

“And somehow, my little sisters seem to know all about him, and they’re ten. But me, a grown woman, you keep completely in the dark and try to play it off when I ask you about it directly. How is that not treating me like an outsider?”

Then I realize I must be ranting louder than I intended judging from how she’s holding a finger to her lips to shush me and trying to convince me to come sit back down.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have explained it like that. It was dishonest,” she concedes, her eyes pleading with me to forgive her, though she hasn’t even apologized. “But you have to understand where I’m coming from. Yes, you’re older, but you’re also different than your sisters. You’re sensitive and things affect you deeply, especially anything that even resembles a man who is not your father paying me special attention. I hesitate to let you in whenever I’m dating someone because of how much it always affects you. It’s better to wait until I’m sure the guy is someone I have a real future with, to save you from that pain.”

I pause in my tracks, fuming in place as I consider what she’s saying. I can’t deny any of that, but something still bothers me about it.

“But it’s okay to expose the younger girls to some guy you’re not sure about, some guy who might just up and disappear from their lives one day? You’re not worried about hurting them?” I question accusingly once it clicks what is still bothering me about her explanation. “And after a few years of him ‘buying you dinner’ you still don’t know if he’s someone you have a future with?”

I finally glance over at her and have to look away almost immediately when I see the pained expression on her face. It’s not like me to hurt her like this, and I instantly regret it. It wasn’t that important for me to find out who Warren is. I’m still bothered, but now it’s me who needs to apologize.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t know what got into me.”

“No, honestly, you don’t have anything to be sorry about because you’re right,” she admits, sounding stunned and maybe even disgusted with herself.

But hopefully not with me. I don’t think I could take that.

I hurry back over to the couch and drop into the seat next to her, settling back against her side so she knows I’m not really all that upset with her.

“I didn’t mean for the girls to find out either, but you know how they are. Nothing gets by them,” she chuckles uncomfortably, her face a strange and unsettling mix of pain and smiles. “And once they figured it out, I didn’t see the point of trying to keep it from them anymore.”

I study her for a moment, feeling guilty that I apparently still have a need to keep pressing her about this, and yet, I can’t help it. This bothers me. It’s like my mom has been over here living a whole secret life, but it’s only been a secret from me.

“Have they met him?”

I have to know. It feels important. Them catching her talking and texting with him is one thing, but if he’s been to the house or they’ve met him around town, then whatever she has with Warren is probably something serious.

“They have, and they seem to like him,” she answers carefully, watching me about as closely as I’ve been studying her. “He even babysits for me sometimes when I have an opportunity to work an evening shift on the weekends. I can’t turn down the chance for those killer weekend tips if it’s not costing me extra for a sitter.”

Yep, that sounds serious. They’re closely involved in each other’s lives. He’s met her kids, and she trusts him enough to leave him with them.

“And did you tell them not to say anything to me about him?” I can’t help demanding the answer to another thing that has been bothering me, right while we’re at it.

She closes her eyes as if that question stings more than the others, and then admits softly, “I did. I just thought it would be better if you heard it from me, and I hadn’t found a good time to bring it up with you yet. I’m guessing they told you anyway, though.”

“I don’t think it was intentional,” I sigh. “It was actually me they were teasing, and your connection to Warren just sort of slipped out. They got weird when I asked more about it, though.”

“I’m so sorry, kid,” she finally apologizes, and somehow, it lightens the whole load I’ve been carrying around about this.

It's all I've been wanting from her and I can tell it’s genuine, plus this conversation has given me plenty to think about. I still feel bad about my own role in it all, though. I never realized the effect I’ve had on her personal life until now.

And the truly weird thing is where my mind goes with it. Normally, I’d call or text Aly about something like this, but I’ve been more reserved about bothering her lately. I know she’s been busy with her triplets and balancing all her family responsibilities with running her pack.

Instead, it’s Jason my mind drifts to. He’s been sort of like a friend these past days, and we’ve had a couple actual conversations about stuff. Maybe he wouldn’t mind talking to me about it, and he might even still be awake. But at the same time, this seems too personal to bring up with someone I’m trying not to get close to.

“What were they teasing you about?” my mom questions softly, interrupting my thoughts. “I’m sorry, maybe it’s not even my place to be asking right now, but I can’t help wondering what about you they would link with Warren.”

I sigh, feeling the heat already flushing my face before I’ve even opened my mouth.

After a second or two of deliberating whether I should, I finally admit, “Jason. They came in the bedroom at the exact moment I was trying to send him that text I promised him, and it was a whole thing.”

“Oh no. A whole thing that worked out in the end, I hope?”

“I think so. It’s still irritating, but I think I’m over it, and I’ve talked to him a bit here and there after that. So yeah, I guess it worked out in the end.”

“I don’t think there’s anything that will chase him off, kid,” she tells me reassuringly, squeezing my shoulder a little as she offers a tentative smile.

I’m starting to conclude the same about him, which is both exciting and terrifying, and I'm not quite sure where to go with it. But my rebellious brain seems to know.

“So, if Warren babysits for you some weekends, does that mean I might be able to have a Friday or Saturday night where I don’t have to stay with the girls?” I wonder, feeling surprisingly eager about the prospect of having some free time this summer, which I guess helps soften the blow of this whole Warren situation a bit.

“I like where your mind went with that. Were you thinking of having a man of your own buy you some dinner?” she teases me instead of answering my question, wiggling her eyebrows at me suggestively. Or I guess I should say awkwardly, because that’s how it feels.

“No, of course not,” I scoff, rolling my eyes at her while also secretly wondering what my intention actually was with that question.

But then when I think it through a bit more, I realize I have no idea why I even bothered asking. It’s not like there will be anything to do around here on a Saturday night. Everything closes early except the bar.

“In all seriousness, Ronnie, you can have whatever days or nights off that you want. If you want to get out of the house, go. Just give me a heads up so I can arrange a babysitter.”

“I appreciate that, but I probably won’t. I don’t even know why I asked. I don’t mind staying with the girls anyway, since it’s way cheaper.”

“Which is my battle to fight, not yours,” she reminds me, like she does all the time.

But her battles are my battles, even if she’s in denial about that, and it's the least I can offer after interrogating her all night and probably making her feel like she's not entitled to a social life without my approval.

“Well, the battle I’m currently losing is keeping my eyes open, so I think I’ll head to bed,” I tell her, hoping to dismiss our discussion. I'm not as tired as I'm letting on, but I am finished talking about all this.

Then I stand and offer her a quick hug before turning and heading down the hall to my room.

“Night, kid,” she says softly from behind me, still nestled in her seat on the couch. “Try and turn off that big brain of yours so you can get some sleep.”

Much easier said than done, especially when I’ve just been given so much to think about.