Tug-at-your-heartstrings new adult first love story.
What starts as a bet to avoid cleanup duties at her minimum wage cashier job, wins Amelie D'Amico more than she's ever hoped for.
When Ben, a cute customer who always checkouts at her register, fi...
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Mom picks up on the second ring.
"Amélie? Sweets? Is it really you?" Her voice trembles, and I swear I hear a sob.
"Hi. Is it a good time?" The French words cling to my tongue, and I have to force them out.
"Yes, oh, yes. I'm so glad to hear your voice. I'm rea—" She sobs for real. My mother, who's the most buttoned-up and unemotional person I know, is crying.
"Mom, hey, Mom...stop."
"I—I'm just so happy you've ca-a-aled."
I struggle to understand her through her hiccups.
"I called because"—I need a mom. I don't know what to do. I'm afraid to trust people. I'm lonely—"I might be moving to France."
I use the potential unconfirmed move as my excuse, my protection from showing her the whole truth in case she wounds me again. On purpose or not, I have no place in my soul left for new damage. Every cell of me is in pain, and not the kind from stepping on a nail, or burning yourself. My suffering is devious and ancient. I've built it up and stored my feelings over several years of people abandoning me. I hurt because the heavy load is too much for one person to carry, but who would I share it with?
"What? That's great. Why? When?" Her words sound nasal, and a slower sob follows.
"I applied to several Ph.D. programs." I rattle the facts to cover up the cracks in my voice. "One's in Bretagne-Loir. If I get in—I begin in January."
"So close. That"—she blows her nose—"the best thing I've heard in years." She sounds almost cheery.
She didn't care for any of my news in years, but I get it. This call is definitely better than my 'I hate you' text. The joy in her voice is confusing but also not. She made it clear over the last month that she wants to have a relationship with me, and it's much easier to accomplish if I'm in France.
"Are you there, sweets? Are you listening?"
"I am."
"I—I love you." My stomach clenches. Words, those are nothing more than words. They don't mean much, but I absorb them, wanting more, on repeat, to make up for years of not hearing them from her. "I love you so, so much. That's the main thing I want you to always know. No matter what happens."
What happens? She doesn't expect us to be besties and bare our souls to each other, talking through the night.
"And the other thing is that I'm sorry. I apologize." She says is with firm belied of a person who thought about it. Came to terms with being at fault.
For what? What are her reasons? She must have some. I want to hear what story she'd concocted in her head that was a good enough explanation for not talking to her daughter for years.
"I've made a lot of mistakes. I was young, and it's not an excuse. But it's true, and I was selfish, and your dad...he gave me all the support he could. He tried to keep us together. I—not as much."
