Page 98 of Almost Enough

When I come, she doesn't pull away. Just holds my gaze while I spill down her throat, swallowing every drop. Then she stands up, kisses me slow and deep, and smiles against my mouth.

“For luck,” she says. “At work.”

I’d left her place feeling lighter than I had in years, except now there’s no version of this where today stays simple. I already know I’m going to need to keep Whitley at arm’s length until I get a handle on whatever’s going on with Mom this time.

I’m head into my office to make the call in private. The phone rings three times before my mom picks up. “Beau?”

“Yeah. I got your calls.”

She exhales like she’s been holding her breath the whole time. “Oh, thank god. I didn’t know who else to⁠—”

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Everything just feels…off today.” Her voice cracks, and my gut clenches like it always does when her world starts slipping.

I close my eyes, rubbing at the tension building in my forehead. “Did something happen?”

“No. Not really. I just,” she breaks off, then tries again. “I just hate feeling like this.”

This is the part where I say I’m here. Where I remind her that she’s not alone, even if some days she feels swallowed whole by sorrow. And I mean it. I always mean it. Even when I’m tired.

“I’ll come by later,” I say.

“You’re an angel,” she whispers. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

That’s the thing. Neither of us knows. And that’s what keeps this cycle spinning.

After I hang up, I stand there for a minute, staring at nothing. The familiar inescapable weight settles back onto my shoulders. This is my reality. Always has been.

I’ve never known a version of my life that didn’t have this in it. The hypervigilance, the mental math I do every time her name lights up my phone. That’s the thing people don’t understand about loving someone with bipolar disorder. It’s not a chapter in your life. It’s the whole book. It doesn’t pause because you’re tired.

I finish up with Whitley’s car, forcing myself to focus on the mechanical details rather than the conversation. By the time I head out, the sun is already setting. I text Whitley to let her know her car is ready, no hint of the storm brewing beneath the surface.

Me:

Car’s fixed. New radiator and coolant system patched up. All set.

Her response comes almost immediately.

Whitley:

My hero! When can Violet bring me to pick her up? I can bring dinner as a thank you?

I stare at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard. This right here is exactly why I don’t do this.

It’s always the first thing that sends women running. The moment they realize I’m not just some guy with a complicated past, but someone actively managing his mother’s mental health crises. Someone who can’t always be present because he’s busy being a lifeline.

And I don’t even know what Whitley and I are doing yet. We haven’t had that conversation. No labels, no promises. Just really good fucking sex and some kind of connection I can’t name but feel in every cell of my body.

Which means I definitely can’t tell her that my mother called me sobbing today or that I’m about to spend my evening making sure she’s okay, that she took her medication, and that she’s not spiraling into one of those dark places where I become the only tether keeping her grounded.

The last woman I dated stayed for three weeks before she told me she couldn’t handle the emotional baggage. That was after just one interrupted dinner. I haven’t dated anyone else in the two years since.

And I can’t even be angry about it. I get it. Who wants to sign up for a relationship where you’re always going to come second? Who chooses that?

Nobody.

Instead of telling Whitley any of that, I type out a response.