The Ineffable Ruth Rhodes

38 due

vincent

Getting over Charlotte had been easy, after a while. But with Ruth, Vincent had a feeling it wouldn't be so. No one just 'got over' Ruth Rhodes.

He didn't need Remy to tell him that.

He stepped down the stairs quickly with his bag slung over his shoulders, nearing his door as he yelled that he was leaving to his mother.

"Vincent," his mother said quietly as she handed him a small paper. A pamphlet. One he recognized immediately.

"... Why so suddenly?" he said, brows creasing.

"We've been talking about this for months."

"But you very conveniently stopped nagging when I was with Ruth."

She raised a warning brow. "Nagging?"

"Not nagging," he backtracked quickly, "You stopped talking about it when I was with her."

"Yes, well," she said with a raise and drop of her hands frustratedly. "This isn't about her. This is about you."

He made the same motions with his hands. "Momma."

"I'm trying to do what's best for you."

Vincent ran his hands through his hair and closed his eyes. His heart was beating loudly, as if trying to tell him something he wouldn't let himself acknowledge. "I'm okay, momma. Why can't you just trust me on my own feelings?"

"This isn't about trust either, Vincent!" She shook her head just as angrily. "Why can't you just listen to me?"

"Because I'm fine!"

"And that's the issue!" She yelled finally. Vincent could always tell his mother was really upset or angry when she put on her frog apron even when she wasn't cooking, an apron shaped as a baby frog with pocket eyes. She hadn't even noticed, but she'd walked over and put her apron on shakily, tying it with frantic hands. Maybe it was because of all the times her husband would anger her or get angry, and she would offer him some dinner instead of riling him up more. It was like a pacifier. "You don't think it's weird at all that your father walked out on you and you didn't even bat an eye? You didn't even shed one tear Vincent. Not one.

"This never had to do with me not trusting that you were okay. You're my son." Her voice was firm. "I didn't raise you to cower and you have not once done so. This is about me, as your mother, being worried for you. He left us. I'm not hung up over him, or how he was a lousy husband and how I blame myself every day for ever giving you him as a father— this is, and has always been, about how you don't talk to me. You don't talk to anyone."

"You don't think I saw that?" he blinked to stop the tears. "You don't think I knew right from when I was younger that he was a failed father? That he hated his children and his wife? And he hated the life he had made for himself?"

His mother's head was hung in her hands as she sobbed loudly. He continued.

"There wasn't one doubt in my body that that man would leave us." His voice was shaky. "Not one, momma. I knew he would. Even as a child, I knew it was a matter of time. You don't think I saw the way he looked at us? Like we were some failed experiments."

"I'm so sorry," he managed to make out through her sobs.

What Vincent hadn't realized was that the way he and his mother dealt with their emotions were very different. What he started to realize then, was that he hadn't allowed himself to want that help. He hadn't allowed himself to feel. His hand tentatively reached to his cheek where a single tear slid down it and hit his shirt with a plop.