Broken Promises (The Secret Life of Trystan Scott #6)

by H. M. Ward

  I’m not a preacher or a welfare advocate—I just know how hard it can be and some days, trying isn’t enough. I continue my life knowing I’m lucky, and I never forget where I came from, either.

  Bob drives me within a block of the café, and I feel like I’m going to puke. It’s a blessing and a curse that I won’t be physically able to see her. My vision is getting worse, and if she looks anything like me, I’m not sure if I could do this.

  Bob’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “I’ll be here. Call if you need me.”

  “You mean if I need you to save me from an elderly con-woman?”

  “I think she’s the real thing, or you wouldn’t be here. I checked her out and—”

  Shaking my head, I put up a hand stopping him. “I don’t want to know. I don’t care where she’s been or what she’s done. She left me and didn’t look back. I'm here to put this to bed and never see her again, Bob.”

  “Of course. If you need me, you know where I am.” The man’s voice drops and I know he wants to tell me more, but I don’t want to hear it. This woman blew any chance she had of claiming me as her son. She’s too late.

  I kick open the door, and duck into the swiftly moving crowd on the sidewalk. No one pays attention to the car or me. I keep my head down watching for changes in the color of the ground. That’s been the easiest way to spot broken pavement.

  I stuff my hands into my pockets and cut right, shouldering my way past people. I grab the silver door handle and yank it open before walking inside. This part is going to be tricky. If I talk to the hostess she might recognize me, so I decided to get here first and have Mom come and find me. God knows I won’t be able to see her.

  The café is busy, and there’s a dull murmur of people talking, glasses clinking, and the smell of fried food filling the air. Something with a sweet strawberry scent hits me hard, and I smile because it reminds me of Mari. I resist the urge to pull off my cap and run my hands through my hair.

  When I get to the podium, I don’t have to say much. A woman with big brown hair and a thick Jersey accent asks me, “One?”

  “Two.”

  “Ah,” she smacks her gum and doesn’t look at me twice. “Alrighty, hun. I’ll put you over here, so you’re a little easier to spot.” She drops the menus on a table close to the door and turns away to get the next person in line.

  I slide into the booth and try to calm down. My palms are wet, and I feel like I’m about to hyperventilate. Part of me wants to bolt, but there’s this nagging feeling I should be here—like my life will go to hell if I don’t talk to her. It’s weird, like an omen.

  A waitress comes by, and I don’t look up from the menu. She has that rough sound to her voice and an insanely thick Long Island accent. “Cauwfee, hun?”

  “Yeah.” One-word answers tend to work well, although I usually avoid public places. All it takes is one fan to recognize my profile and I’m fucked.

  She pours the hot liquid into a white mug. “I’ll come back in a few.” She disappears, taking care of other tables while I wait.

  I have one question that I want an answer to before I leave. I don’t want to hear her life story or know what her hobbies are—I don’t want to know her at all.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and down some of the scalding black coffee. I stopped putting sugar and cream in it to hide my vision problem a little bit longer. I can find my face to take a drink, but I can’t always pour without spilling. The whole thing got awkward, so I switched to black coffee, surprising the hell out of everyone. Previously, I enjoyed the beverage with more cream and sugar than coffee.

  I’m holding the cup in my hands, focusing on the warmth radiating from its sides when I hear her voice for the first time. “Trystan? I’m Lynn. I’m the one who sent the letter.” She stands there at the edge of the booth. Her voice quivers when she speaks.

  The scent of her perfume hits me. It’s something juvenile, like vanilla and spices. From what I can see of her, she’s tall and thin with dark hair—and she’s incredibly nervous. Anxiety is wafting off of her tidal waves.

  She stands there shaking enough that even I notice, waiting for me to reply. I don’t say much. I’ve got my guard up, and I’m not dropping it--not even for a second. I don’t care if she’s afraid—she should be mortified by what she did. I hold out my hand, palm up, toward the seat opposite me. “Sit.”

  She slides in, and I notice a nervous tic, she’s done it twice already, and then a third time. Her left hand runs through her hair at her temple and then down behind her ear, tucking the long strand in place.

  I do that.

  Frequently.

  I have to remind myself that this could all be bullshit. I’ve had people do all sorts of things to get close to me, some even learned my movements so they could mirror them—so I’d think we had a lot in common and become instant BFFs. I could attract crazy before becoming famous, but after I became a household name, holy hell—it was like strapping a beacon on my body because the crazy chicks came out of the woodwork.

  Guys say don’t dip your stick in crazy, and that’s accurate, completely. It always bites you on the ass. Horse girls are the worst—you know the type, the ones who found out unicorns weren’t real and switched to horses. After that, second place is tied between models and chicks named ‘Holly’—they’re both completely insane, just in different ways.

  Back to reality, back to the woman who left me and I know nothing about. I spit out, “What do you want?” I don’t look up at her. I don’t need to look to know she’s got big eyes that are ready to spill tears on her cheeks. I can hear it in the ways she breathes, in her voice.

  She does that hair twitch thing, tucks the strand that’s already tucked, and laughs nervously. “I didn’t think this was a good idea, that too much time had passed, and now I’m too late—but I didn’t want to regret never trying to see you.”

  I can’t talk. My jaw locks and I feel my fingers tighten involuntarily around my mug. I’m practically strangling the thing. When I don’t speak, she continues, “I thought you’d think that I wanted something from you—everyone must want something.”

  “And you don’t?” I sound so fucking jaded it’s almost cruel. I keep my chin tucked and my eyes on the mug.

  “No,” her voice is soft and careful. “I don’t want anything from you, and that’s the last thing I wanted you to think. That’s the main thing that kept me away after first seeing you in the press.” Her voice fades and her jaw flaps a few times. I don’t help her out. I show no compassion. “I always thought I’d find you again, but I never expected this.”

  I can’t help it. I’m laughing in her face, bitterly with a smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Really? Well, I never expected to have a mother who abandoned me suddenly show up and want me back, and since you didn’t appear until I’m way past my teen years, should I assume you had an aversion to teenagers as well as babies? Or do you just hate kids in general and you waited for me to grow up?” I’m on my feet, sliding out of the booth. “You know what, this was a bad plan. I should go back to resenting you from a distance, and you can go back to being the woman who abandoned her only son because he cried too much.” I’m out of the booth and ready to dart past her when she grabs my wrist.

  I freeze even though I want to rip my hand away. “What are you talking about? I didn’t abandon you. Trystan, I never left your side from the day you were born until the day your dad ran off with you. I spent every day of my life looking for you. He said I left you?”

  It feels like someone shoved a hot iron into my chest, each new word pushing it painfully deeper and deeper. I growl out the word, “Yes.” I stand there, perfectly still and her hand drops.

  “I understand why you’re so angry, then. That makes sense, but that’s not the way it happened.”

  I grit my teeth together to hide the pain coursing through my body, and slide back into the booth. I wave a hand at her while wearing a plastic smile. “Then tell me the truth, and don’t
leave a damn thing out, because God knows I have the means to verify every last detail, and if you lie to me—even a tiny bit—I will find out and I’ll never speak to you again.”

  She nods and tries to hide her shaking hands by folding them together. I hear the pain in her voice when she speaks, but I’m too raw to do more than notice. Every time she speaks it feels like being clawed apart. I want to scream at her for leaving me, for letting Dad abuse me, and humiliate me. I bite my tongue and sit. I tell myself to sit and hear this story.

  She takes a shaky breath and dives in. “I need to start before the day you disappeared. Things weren’t always bad. Your father wasn’t always horrible. When I first met him, he was sweet. He doted on me. But then we got married, and things changed. I thought that was the way it was supposed to be, you know? Everyone says the first year is the hardest, so I thought things were normal, but his temper flared up hotter and higher. By the end of that first year, I was in tears more often than not. Then I found out I was pregnant with you, and I was thrilled--we both were until you arrived. After that, everything went to hell. It was like your dad resented you, and at times I thought he hated you. I wasn’t sure why, but it frightened me so much I planned to take you and run.”

  I sit there as this story spills out from her heart. I can hear the pain and sorrow, and know this tale is full of heartbreak and misery. If I could see her face, her eyes would be glassy, and the corners of her mouth would droop in a permanent frown—I can hear it in her voice. I want to believe her, but it’s so easy to blame dad.

  “You were going to take me away from Dad?”

  “I was. I had the car packed with everything we needed, and we were going to take off before he got home from work. I had enough cash that we could get away, go somewhere he’d never find us, and it took so long to save that money. He didn’t let me keep any money around and only gave me a debit card for groceries and food. I could deal with the controlling issues he had, I would have stayed if he only screamed at me in a fit of rage, but he did something to you.”

  My heart is pounding, and I want to tell her that she doesn’t need to say more, especially since I think I already know, but I can’t save her from retelling this story. “What did he do?”

  “You were crying. You had an ear infection, and you hurt when I laid you down. I’d been carrying you all day, and I was tired. Your dad wasn’t helping me and, frankly, I didn’t want him to, but I needed to lay you down just for a moment. When I came back from the bathroom, your room was completely silent, and he was standing there over your crib. Your crying had stopped and when I looked at you to see why…” Her voice breaks and she swallows hard, choking back tears.

  I can’t keep being an asshole to her. Whether she’s legit or not, she thinks this was real. I can sense her horror. I can feel her agony. I reach out and touch the back of her hand lightly. “You don’t have to say the rest. I’m sure I already know.”

  She puts her hand on mine. “I have to tell you—I wouldn’t have taken you if he hadn’t, but Trystan, when I came back in the room he had a pillow over your little body. Your tiny hands were tearing at it trying to pull it away, but the movement was so slow and erratic. I thought I'd lost you. I rushed over and ripped the pillow away. You started crying, and so did I.”

  “Dad said I cried a lot.”

  “You did, but you had reason to—babies cry when they hurt, and you were hurting. He was so jealous of you. You took up all of my time. He’d work and come home, and you were there. He’d want to take me on a date, but you had to come. He’d want me in bed, but you needed me more. These were all things I'd expected, but he hadn't, and the older you got, the more resentful he became. I couldn’t risk staying there, so I packed up our things, but the day we were going to leave went wrong.”

  She squeezes my hand hard then pulls away to dig through her purse for a tissue. She lifts it to her face, patting. “Your dad came home early and saw the car packed with you in your car seat. He ripped the keys from my hand, ran inside and saw that your things were gone. He was furious. There was a lot of yelling, and he shoved me. I fell and hit my head on the driveway, unconscious long enough for him to drive away. Everything I needed to take you and start over was in that car. He took my money and my son, and I never saw either of you again.” She laughs nervously, tucking that piece of hair behind her ear again.

  I’m slow to speak and want to get this right. Her story meshes with Dad’s version in places, so I don’t think it’s total crap. “I’m sorry you went through so much. I hate to add to your burdens by not taking your story at face value, but I can’t.”

  “I understand.” She dabs her eyes with the tissue again. She must be crying. That’s got to be why the waitress hasn’t come back.

  “People have made up things that sound believable before, and other women have showed up claiming to be my mother. I need to verify this, all right?” I feel like such a dick for saying it. When those other people spoke, something felt off, but this doesn’t. Everything from the way she describes dad on a good day to the way she pegged his outbursts, to his undying love for her—it all feels right.

  “Of course.” There’s understanding in her tone, something the other people lacked. “Even if this is the only time we meet, I’m glad you listened. You didn’t have to, and honestly, I’m surprised you stayed. Everyone has one chance to tell their story, and I’m grateful you listened to mine. You’ve had a hard life, Trystan, and I know that man, I’m sure he blamed you for everything.”

  I nod, not wanting to say more before I know for certain. “Listen, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about this yet. It’s a lot to come to terms with, and I don’t want the press around right now—not for something like this. This story is between you and me, okay?” She probably has another life by now. It’s a selfish thing to ask, but I have to say it. I don’t want the pap around to harass the crap out of her before I get a chance to know who she is. They’ll taint everything.

  She nods slowly, dabbing her eyes. “Of course. I’ve not told anyone, for several reasons, that being one of them. I’d like to get to know you without expectations or cameras. I know I can’t make up for lost time, but—”

  I stop her. There’s enough guilt in her voice to drown us both. “Time is our friend now—there’s lots of it. Let me check some things and I’ll contact you again.” I pull out a bill and put it on the table. “Please order lunch on me. I need to head out before someone recognizes me, but you should take your time. I’ll be in touch.”

  I walk away feeling like a louse. It feels like I walked out of a meeting negotiating a new record deal, not like I finally met my mother.

  Chapter 37

  Trystan

  I tell Bob the basics and ask him to confirm her story when I get in the car. As we drive away, I have the fierce desire to go back. It feels horrible, and I can’t understand why. There’s this sense that something bad is going to happen, like the other shoe is going to drop with a spike on the toe. My stomach has been uneasy for days now, and I’ve not eaten much, besides candy. I feel like shit. I slump back into the seat and cover my eyes with my arm.

  Bob has been looking at me in the rearview mirror. I can feel his eyes on me.

  “If there’s something you want to say, say it.”

  “What if this all checks out? What does she want? Did she say?” Bob knows how much this means to me.

  I haven't said much about my missing mom over the years, but he knows damn well it’s a sore spot, and there’s always that need for closure. Besides, I already have one parent that hates me. It’d be nice to have one that actually liked me. “I’m not sure. It sounded like she wanted to talk to me, and she didn’t expect to get to tell me anything. It was almost like today was all she hoped for. It’s kind of sad.” I drop my arms and sit up. I pull off the ball cap and toss it on the seat, and run my hands through my hair and stare at the floor, thinking.

  “It is. If you believe all that crap about mothers be
ing genetically tied to their children, it must have ripped her heart out when your father kidnapped you.”

  “By crap, you mean science?” Bob laughs and looks over his shoulder at me. “Yeah, I read. Just because I can’t see shit, doesn’t mean I stopped listening. That was in the news recently—that moms have their babies DNA. I know stuff.” He’s quiet, maneuvering the car through rush hour traffic. I should have taken the helicopter, but that wouldn’t be inconspicuous. At the same time, being trapped in the city at this time of day sucks. “He kidnapped me, didn’t he?”

  “Sure sounds that way. But your mother was going to do it first.”

  I work my jaw and sit back against the seat, splaying my hands on the Italian leather. It feels cool and smooth under the pads of my fingers. “Check to see if the kidnapping was reported.”