“God,” she says with a half laugh. “You really are terrible, you know.”

The insult is laced with affection, though, and I grab on to it. “But you love me anyway.”

I hang up before she can answer, chuckling at the thought of her cursing me. My humor dies quickly as the silence resumes, and with it, the pain in my hands and arms returns to the forefront. I have to move. Get out of here.

Blame it on my weakened condition, but I decide to go to the one place I know I’ll find comfort.

“Rye Bread!” My mother spreads her arms in greeting, waiting for me to step into her hug.

I do, and she instantly wraps me up. I’m a good foot taller than she is, and my shoulders are twice as wide as hers, but when she holds me, I feel like a kid again, small and safe.

Closing my eyes, I let my forehead rest on the side of her head. “Hey, Mom.”

With a final squeeze, she lets go and then ushers me inside the townhouse that’s been the family home for the past forty years. Most people, when they think of townhouses on the Upper West Side, imagine sleek elegance, soaring ceilings, detailed molding, spiral staircases, and triple-height windows with light streaming in.

My mom’s house has all of that, sure. But the wide plank floors have been sanded down to the original wood, remaining unpolished and creaking underfoot. The air smells of old pine and plaster and books. Probably because the front room has two walls of built-in bookcases crammed to bursting with books of various sizes and topics.

I have fond memories of curling up on one of the mustard velvet armchairs in front of the ornate onyx fireplace and reading during rainy days. Yes, I was that child, bookish and shy. It wasn’t until I hit puberty and got too horny for my own good that I forced myself out of my shell.

Mom leads me down the hall, where framed family photos share space with oil paintings by masters, and into the back of the house. The kitchen looks like something out of Victorian England, with dark-green cabinets, butcher block counters, and a pink AGA stove that warms the entire space.

A long farmhouse table is set up in front of the double-height grid of back windows. The other side of the back room is reserved for Mom’s studio.

The scent of oil paint, turpentine, and baking is a comforting blend that I know well.

Mom shoves me into a chair. “Sit. Let me make you some tea.”

Early on, when we were becoming friends, Whip, Jax, Killian, Scottie, and I figured out our parents’ shared obsession with tea. We all grew up knowing that tea arrived with every visit, to fix every ill, to top off the day, or to close out the night. Jax is still fairly obsessed with making the perfect cuppa. I can take it or leave it, but I’m not about to contradict my mom.

“Your father was here earlier. You just missed him.”

My back tenses, and I spread my palms wide on the smooth wood table. “What a shame.”

My mother doesn’t miss the sarcasm in my voice—not that I was trying too hard to hide it—and she turns to give me a reproachful look. “I’ve forgiven him. Why can’t you?”

Forgive my dad. There’s a thought. It isn’t as though I haven’t tried. But then I’ll hear about him cozying up to my mom again, and my eye starts to twitch. I shouldn’t be upset. As she said, it’s her life. She can make her own choices. Only I was the one who heard her cry in her room every time she caught him cheating. I was there when she walked around the house like a ghost, so deep in her depression from Dad’s antics that she forgot to feed herself or me. Eventually, they divorced. But he keeps coming back. And he keeps failing her. They’re stuck in an ugly loop, neither of them able to break free.

He isn’t a bad guy in all other respects. He started as an investment banker but is now an adjunct professor of finance at Columbia, mainly because he’d wanted to retire but still needs to keep busy now and then. He likes the idea of torturing—that is, teaching—bright and malleable minds.

As for my relationship with Dad, he’s always been supportive. Which makes it harder for me to see him break her heart over and over again.

Mom is still giving me that disappointed look, and I feel small for sticking my nose in their business again. But I can’t stay silent, apparently. “I just…” I blow out a breath then start again. “How can you trust him?”

She shrugs. “I don’t. But some people are inextricably linked to each other in life. Your father and I are like that. We keep trying.”

I want to put my face in my hands and block her out. How the hell can she defend infidelity like this? As soon as I hit puberty and understood exactly how my dad had hurt my mom, I vowed I’d never let anyone have that much power over me. Ever.

But I didn’t come here to fight with Mom. I want peace. Quiet. Comfort. So I let out a long breath and roll my stiff shoulders. “I’ll try to let it go.”

She glances at me, and I get the feeling she’d been expecting an argument.

“Good.” A slow smile spreads over her face when I simply meet her gaze with a placid expression. Mom huffs under her breath in wry amusement before heading for the stove. “You could stay for dinner, if you like.”

“I have plans for later, unfortunately.” It’s a lie. I love my mom, and I have the feeling if I hang out in this house for several hours, I won’t want to leave.

Pushing aside a teetering stack of art books, then resting my arms on the worn wood table, I watch my mother move around the kitchen. She’s tall for a woman, nearly six feet, and sturdy. Over the years, her ash-blond hair has become steel gray, but she wears it now with copper-bronze tips. The thick mass is piled up on her head in a messy bun and glows against the pitch black of her standard turtleneck and pants set.

She reaches for the kettle, exposing the faded black tattoo band about her wrist of stylized stalks of rye—her homage to me. The other tattoo she has is known only to herself, my dad, and anyone else who has seen her naked…and I really don’t want to think about that or where it might be.

“You’re making a face,” she says, scooping loose Assam tea into a pot.

“A face?”

“Mmm. Like you’ve just smelled something off.” She glances my way and her brown eyes light with amusement. “My kitchen smells just fine, I’ll have you know. So I can only assume you thought of something that upset you. Is it about your dad—”

“No.” I pause. “And I didn’t make a face.”

“Did too.”

Grinning, I shake my head. Hell if I’ll tell her just what imagery upset me. I’d probably be subjected to a “sex is a natural expression of the soul” talk. Again. I had enough of those during puberty and am lucky I didn’t turn out scarred for life. “Stop fishing.”

Mom shrugs and finishes up the tea. She sets the pot, a set of teacups and saucers, milk, and sugar—the whole deal—on a tray and carries it over. Because it isn’t proper tea if you half-assed it by fixing your cup at the counter like I did when I was at home.

“Baby boy,” she says, handing me a cup. “That hello hug spoke for itself. Something is bothering you.”

I wait until she pours my tea and adds milk and sugar to answer. “It’s a blue day, that’s all.”