Like Gold

23.

23.

I GUESS my bad feeling was accurate, because by Monday morning, my mother was back on my case.

"Who's this boy you've been hanging out with?"

I turned on my heels, my hand hovering over the door handle. So close.

My mom stood behind me, her hands on her hips and a frown pulling at her mouth. I sighed, my bag slipping from my shoulder. Piper must have told her about Saturday. The only question was – how much did she tell her?

"What boy?" I asked.

She raised a brow at me, her lips curling. "Don't get smart with me, Jasmine. The boy who has been walking you home."

I bit back a groan, fighting to keep a neutral expression so that she wouldn't think I was being disrespectful.

"It was one time, Mom," I said gently. "He's just a friend. You've met him before, remember? Tall? Brown hair?"

She hummed for a moment, clicking her tongue, before saying, "The white boy?"

I snorted. "His name's Jace."

"Jace," she repeated. She shook her head, releasing a heavy breath through her nose. She stepped forward, sending me a gentle look, though I could see by the way she was pursing her lips that she had a long lecture about the dangers of men written in her mind. "I just want you to be careful. You can't trust a lot of people these days."

"I know, Mom."

"I am not sure you do," she said, her accent thick on her tongue. "Listen, habibti. Some people... they will not treat you properly. They will be selfish. Piper – she is a good girl. Maybe you should stick with her for a little longer."

"I thought this was what you wanted, Mom," I said, lifting a brow. "For me to be normal again? I had plenty of friends before –" my voice threatened to crack but I pushed on – "before Amber died. Remember? Amber, Piper, Sana, Henry, Jack –"

"I remember," she interrupted bluntly. She shook her head, holding a hand to her forehead. "I know. I do want you to make friends, it's just – I worry for you."

I scratched at my wrist, frustration building inside of me. She worried when I didn't have friends. She worried when I had friends. She worried when I didn't leave the house. She worried when I did leave the house.

What was I supposed to do?

What did she want from me?

I was so tired of guessing – so tired of failing. It was like my entire life this past year was trying to please my parents. Trying to stop everyone around me from worrying. Trying to convince them that I would be okay – eventually.

But no one believed it, and slowly I stopped believing too.

And it had turned into a game of acting as happy as possible when all eyes were on me. When people skirted around me, like I was contagious. Like they were waiting for me to fall apart – or do something.

And my mom was the same.

I could see it in her eyes every time she looked at me. I could hear it in the sigh that characterised every one of our conversations. She worried because, to her, I was fragile. I'd never be better. She pitied because, to her, I was beneath a normal person. I was damaged and had to get back to normal.

To her, I was broken.

I tugged at my sleeve, sucking in a deep breath. Sure, maybe I was damaged. Maybe I didn't think the way I used to. Maybe my shoulders tensed every time I heard a car drive past. Maybe I didn't have as many friends as I used to. Maybe I'd never go to a party again, never drink again.