Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

Does she still feel that way, even a little?
“No one wants their kid’s life to be harder,” she goes on, “and then when
we lost Henry, I thought I was losing control of everything. I’m glad I had
time to figure myself out.”
“And now?” I ask, waiting for the hard truth. “Do you still think you did
something wrong?”
She smiles softly, her eyes pooling. “There’s no feeling in the world like
being in love,” she says. “Are you in love?”
It doesn’t take a moment for me to nod. “I think about her all the time,” I
tell her, my voice thick with all sorts of feelings. “I want to be with her all the
time. Everything feels good when she looks at me and kisses me and breathes
on my neck and…”
“Okay, okay...” She laughs under her breath. “You’re still my child.”
I lean my head on her shoulder as she reaches around and touches my
cheek.
After a moment, she leans in too. “I would never want you to not feel
that,” she finally whispers. “Henry will never feel that.”
Needles prickle in my throat, the constant reminder that this life is our
only shot behind the closed door of a little kid’s room down the hall.
“I will always love you.” She kisses my forehead. “No matter what.”
I want to go to my room right now and check my phone, and if she hasn’t
called, then I want to, but I’m dreading it too. I’m afraid she’ll hang up on
me. Or worse, scream and growl. Hearing her hatred would hurt worse.
“I’m starving.” My mom sighs. “I’ve been hungry for twenty years, and
I’m sick of it.”
I laugh. “Popcorn and Milk Duds?”
Years ago, we’d pig out and watch Burlesque with Cher and Christina
Aguilera—my favorite film—every few months, but we hadn’t done that in a
long time.
“You get the food,” she tells me. “I’ll load the movie.”