Page 62 of Grip Me Tight
I don’t know how long I run, but my throat is burning, and my muscles are shaking by the time I reach the edge of the clearing for the bunkie. I half expect the jeep to be gone but it’s still sitting there. I open the door and step inside, but the stillness tells me Sterling isn’t here. “Hello?” I call, just in case, but there’s nothing. I look out the windows, seeing a figure down at the beach.
I grab a water and make my way down the path to where Sterling is sitting on a large flat rock. She doesn’t turn around. A sick feeling settles in my stomach.
“Sterling?”
“Why don’t you think you can be with me?” Her voice is hoarse like she’s been crying.
“Because sometimes wanting someone isn’t enough.” I run a hand through my hair and fold my legs, settling in at her feet. “I have no right pretending I can make things work with you.” I swallow hard, letting my back lean against the jagged side of the side, needing the pain to ground me. “You’re better off just thinking of me as temporary.”
“You said this morning that you wanted more. Why is there a time limit when we want the same thing?” Her voice is soft and filled with pain.
“I will never stop wanting you, Silver. But I’m not what you need.”
“Noah called while you were out for your run.”
I don’t know why she’s bringing up her brother right now, but so much has happened, I forgot about sending him the new song this morning. Shit. “I should go call him.”
“He told me to ask you about your mother.”
I close my eyes. “She was sick. She died. End of story.”
“I think there’s more to it than that, Tanner.”
“What did Noah say to you?” So much for being my best friend. I guess blood really is thicker than water. I tip my drink up, pouring it over my head.
“A few things. He said I should get you to tell me why you run, but I already know.”
I turn to look at her then. The sun shines behind her, and I see her eyes are red-rimmed and her face is blotchy. Dread makes my chest tight, a sick, sinking feeling that winds around me at the thought of her crying over me. “What do you think you know about my running?”
“I know you started running to our house years ago. I’d be lying on the couch and see you come flying up the street in your old sneakers. You’re always running. We gave you a place to come home to, but even now, you’d rather run. You ran away the night I kissed you.”
“I’m not running from you.”
“Aren’t you?” She rocks back, her arms wrapped around her legs, resting her chin on her knees. A whisper tickles at the back of my mind, lyrics trying to piece themselves together. If I lose her, I might never hear the music again.
“My mother heard voices.”
Sterling stops rocking, her attention focused on me. I clear my throat. “People always assumed it was drugs and trust me, there was a lot of drugs. But I think she took them to try and fix herself.” I scrub my hands through my hair, scraping it back from my face. “To make the voices stop.” My elbows dig into my knees and I think about how much I want to say.
Fuck it. I might as well bare myself to her and then she’ll understand. “Growing up with her was difficult. Sometimes she’d forget to eat for days. Sometimes we had fifty boxes of cereal in the house. I ate a lot of cereal. Mostly because I could reach it, and I also didn’t have to worry about the stove.”
“Tanner—”
I hold up a hand. “Just.. it’s fine, Silver.” I blow out a breath. “She heard voices in her head. She’d turn the television up so loud the neighbors would complain, just to try and drown out the voices. They scared her. They scared me.”
I feel her hand on my hair and I can’t resist the delicate petting of her fingers, so I put my head back and let her touch me. It might be the last time. “Later on, when I could afford to get her help, some doctors thought it could be a rare form of early onset dementia. Some thought schizophrenia.” I shrug. “Who knows? All I know is that it’s likely hereditary.”
Her fingers stop. “Wouldn’t you know by now? Your mother was young and you’re nearly thirty.”
“I hear things in my head too.” My heart pounds. I’ve never shared that with anyone other than a doctor in my life. Noah suspects, and he knows I worry about whether my mother passed her mental illness on to me, but I’ve never said that out loud. Ever.
“Things that scare you?”
Her voice is gentle, and my eyes burn. I shake my head, then nod. “I mostly hear music, or at least I used to. But since she died…” my throat closes up. I swallow down the tightness. “Since she died, there’s no music. It’s just silence or… I hear her voice sometimes too.”
“Tanner, I think that’s normal. No matter how awful things were for you, she was still your mother. I think you need to let yourself grieve.”
A boat roars up the lake, a tube bouncing behind it. It’s surreal to sit here and slice myself open to her while people are having fun, oblivious to the pain I feel right now. Instead of this bright, sunny day, I feel like it should be dark and stormy.
