In the morning, I’m sore, but it’s a good kind of sore. I get out of the shower, grinning to myself, unable to stop smiling.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt this refreshed in a really long time. I didn’t sleep all that much last night, since Wyatt kept me up. We slept together again, in that intense, passionate way he has, but we also spent a lot of time just talking.

We kept talking about the past, about the way things were when we were kids, but also about how things are now. We’ve become different people, but not that different. I still remember the guy he used to be, and I think that guy is still inside of him.

Wrapped up in all of this is the memory of Atticus, but I keep pushing that out of my mind. I don’t want to think about Atticus, as painful as that may be. I know he should be on my mind at all times right now, since he’s the one we’re supposed to be doing all this for, but I can’t let him ruin this.

I’ve let him ruin enough. He ruined my relationship with my mother, and he ruined my relationship with him. He was such a bad, destructive force for so long, and I have to get out from under that force. He’s gone now, and although I’m not going to just let all this go, I have to let him pass on.

I come out of the bathroom and smile at Wyatt. He grins at me, leaning back on his elbow in bed.

“Hungry?” he asks me.

I shrug a little. “I guess so.”

“Let’s grab some breakfast.”

He gets up and walks over, kissing me deep and slow. I kiss him back, a smile on my face. He goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth and I get dressed, unable to contain my excitement.

We go to the Great American and grab a booth. He sips his coffee and watches me while I fidget with the Splenda packets, my mind slowly drifting elsewhere.

“What’s up?” he asks me finally.

“Nothing,” I say to him. “I’m just thinking about my mom.”

“Yeah.” He sighs. “It’s a problem.”

“What can we do about it?”

“Honestly?” He meets my gaze. “You need to convince her to come stay at my motel. We can get her a room nearby, and that way I can keep an eye on her.”

I nod a little. “That would be good.”

“Think she’d do it?”

“No,” I admit. “I don’t.”

He sighs. “This is pretty common. People don’t want to do what’s best for them if it’s slightly inconvenient. I bet your mom knows she should listen, but she just… won’t.”

“I need to try anyway, right?”

“Probably,” he admits. “But you can’t get frustrated if it doesn’t work.”

We lapse into silence as our food comes. I know he’s right. I can’t let my mom get hurt just because of what I’m doing.

When we finish up, he drops me off at my car. “I’ll be back later,” I say to him.

“Good luck.” He sighs and kisses me. “Don’t take it personally, okay?”

“Take what?”

“If your mom refuses to come. It’s not you, it’s just… people don’t make the best choices.”

“I won’t.” I can’t help but smile. He’s so worried about how I’ll feel, it’s actually pretty sweet. “See you soon.”

I get in my car and head out. I stop off at my apartment to get changed before driving back out to my mom’s place. I park the car out front and knock on the door.

She answers, grumbling at me. I recognize the way she’s frowning and smoking furiously. I’m guessing she’s hungover, probably got too drunk last night. I hate to imagine her sucking down bottles of wine, afraid that someone’s going to come and hurt her, all because of me.

“How’s it going?” I ask her.

“Fine,” she says, sitting down. “Just not feeling that great.”

I make a mental note that she’s not drinking yet, which is a good sign. Usually, she’d have broken out the vodka already, trying to cure her hangover.

“Listen, I want to talk to you,” I say.

She grumbles. “I figured that’s why you’re here.”

“I talked with Wyatt. Look, Mom, we’re not stopping.”

I sit down across from her and for a second, I think she’s going to be angry. I notice a flash of something come across her face, and I think it’s anger.

Instead, I realize that it’s something else completely. It disappears as quickly as it appeared, and I’m left a little off balance.

“Okay,” she says. “I understand.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do. You’re trying to help your brother.”

“Just, last night you seemed to think…”

She holds up her hand, cigarette between her lips. “Don’t,” she says.

“What?” I look at her, surprised.

“I wasn’t myself last night.”

I blink and slowly realize that she was drunker than I realized when she came over. “Mom,” I say softly.

“I know,” she answers. “Okay? I understand. I need to quit. But I can’t. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“No,” I say, but at the same time, it is. She’s never admitted to having a problem before, never so much as admitted to having a hangover. Of course, I can tell, but she always played it off and pretended to be okay.

This is a step in the right direction, at the very least.

“Come back with me,” I say to her softly.

“Where? Your place?” She shrugs. “Can’t be better than here.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Back to the motel where Wyatt’s staying.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“He can watch over you,” I saw.

“I don’t need minding by some kid.”

“He’s not a kid. He’s a police detective. And you do need protection.”

She grumbles again, finishing her cigarette. She stubs it out, grabs her pack, and lights another.

“Say I went,” she says finally. “How would that work? You know I can’t afford it.”

“I’ll help out,” I say. “I can pay for it.”

“Can you afford it?”

I nod. “I can make it work.”

She watches me silently for a long minute. “Why are you doing all this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your brother… he wasn’t good. You know that?”

I sit back, surprised. “What?”

“He was rotten.” She says the words like they burn her tongue. “I’ve known it for a while. Rotten down to the core.”

“He was my brother,” I say softly.

“He did awful things. Stole from us, said terrible things.”

“Still,” I say. “He was family.”

“He was my son.” She stares at me hard. “I loved that boy with everything, but he was rotten. Why do you want to risk so much for him when he’s gone?”

I watch her quietly for a second. I can’t pretend like I haven’t wondered that myself. I don’t know why I’ve tried so hard to figure this out, when I don’t think he would have done the same for me. I think he would have gotten high and forgotten all about me if he could.

But I’m not Atticus. And I’m not my mother. I can be better than they are. I can do something more.

I can’t say that to her, though on some level I think she already understands it.

“He’s my brother,” I say to her. “It’s what you do.”

She’s silent and nods. I think she understands that I couldn’t say the truth.

“I’ll go,” she says finally.

I let out a breath. “Thanks, Mom.”

“I’ll get my things. Meet you out front.”

I watch as she shuffles from the kitchen. I feel relieved, but also something else.

I’m afraid for her. She seems so worn down, so broken, and saying that about Atticus… I think that wears heavy on her, that she thinks it. She’s not wrong, but it must hurt a lot to think that about her own child.

She meets me out by the car, a bag dragging behind her. I load it into the trunk and we’re off, driving back to Wyatt and the motel. We get there not long later and she goes down to ask for a room as close to Wyatt’s as possible.

Meanwhile, I head upstairs. I go to his room and knock, but there’s no answer.

I knock again and wait. But nothing at all. I try calling, but don’t get an answer.

I start to panic. I call again, and this time I can hear his phone ringing from inside the room, faintly but audible. I start to bang on his door.

“Wyatt!” I yell. “Wyatt!”

Pure panic takes over. I don’t think or know what I’m doing as I pound on that door. I keep imagining him broken, stabbed, shot, killed, hurt, lying in there alone and bleeding. I don’t know what I’d do if he were hurt or worse. I think I’d crumble, destroyed and broken, and I had no clue I felt that way.

I’m overwhelmed by my feelings for him. I bang on the door harder, screaming his name. I must look insane. I’ve lost all control, and all I need is to see him again, feel him again.

“Cora!” I hear the voice, but it doesn’t register. “Cora!”

I turn slowly, and he’s there, holding a pizza box.

I drop to my knees and start crying like an idiot. Relief floods me so strongly that I can’t stand. He runs over and puts the box down before pulling me against him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks me. “Are you okay?”

“I thought… you weren’t answering…”

“Shit,” he says, understand. “I’m so sorry. I just thought we could have some pizza, if your mom came.”

“It’s not your fault.” He hugs me tight, and I feel so stupid. It takes a little bit, but eventually I get myself together.

We don’t talk about it. He doesn’t mention the way I reacted, and I don’t bring it up again. But when we go to get my mom settled in, I notice the way he’s looking at me.

It’s partially fear. And I don’t blame him. I’m afraid of myself, of the way I responded like it was the end of the world. I’m emotional, pushed to the brink, and I’m afraid of how I feel about him.