Word Count: 1574

He ran into his mother on his way out of the bathroom, nearly colliding into her as he swept through the door with the intention of making his way directly back downstairs. Startled, Paris took a step back, hovering in the doorway while his mother watched him carefully, making no move to give him more space.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“You weren’t downstairs,” she explained.

“Obviously. I was using the bathroom,” he said and rolled his eyes.

“There are bathrooms downstairs,” his mother pointed out.

Paris’s eyes narrowed as he stared suspiciously, noting the concern on her face and the suspicion in her own eyes. He bristled indignantly and crossed his arms over his chest, fuming.

“Were you spying on me?” he asked.

“I was making sure you’re okay,” she said.

“You were checking up on me,” he accused, and by the way his mother straightened her posture as her hands impulsively fluttered over her stomach he felt confident that his assumption was correct. He clucked his tongue, rolled his eyes again, and let his face pucker disdainfully. “I wasn’t puking, Mom,” he said.

“I know you weren’t.”

“Because you were listening to make sure?”

“Baby, I’m just worried about you,” his mother tried.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Paris insisted.

“Of course there is!” she snapped back.

Paris was surprised to hear her raise her voice. His mother might not be the sort of fawning mother Chris’s mother was, but she’d always had a remarkable amount of patience with him. She would touch and kiss and pet him with caution and reserve, and she met his anger and resistance with a calmness and an understanding he didn’t think he would have been able to show if he were in her shoes.

He adjusted his position in the doorway, tightened his arms over his chest defensively, and did his best not to show how uncomfortable he suddenly was by the change in her demeanor.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tried to play it off.

“Don’t start that,” she said. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You haven’t been right since your father died.”

Paris flinched away at the reminder.

“I know it, Claire and Beau know it,” his mother continued. Her voice grew less accusing and more anxious. “And what’s worse is that you know it, and every once in a while you get so close to admitting it and asking for help, but then you pull back and start pretending and denying it again. You can’t keep doing that, Baby. Nothing’s ever going to sort itself out if you do.”

Not wanting to look at her and risk caving in the face of the truth, Paris glanced off to the side to focus on the large window that looked out over the Gallos’ backyard. He could hear the music outside, and laughter and voices immersed in lively conversation.

To the Gallos, holidays were a time to spend with family and friends, and the perfect excuse for Momma to throw a party. The Fourth of July was no exception, an occasion that was perhaps more significant to them than most considering how many of the Gallos had spent time in military service. The yard was strung up with lights and decked out in red, white, and blue; Momma had spent hours putting together fancy hors d’oeuvres, meals and desserts to suit the occasion, and the house and yard were swarming with so many names and faces Paris couldn’t have remembered them all if he tired—some of them Gallos, some of them Merlos, and some of them related to neither but invited through Momma’s love and generosity.

He’d felt his mother watching him for nearly the entire evening. She’d taken to watching him much more closely as of late. They all had, and he’d be a fool not to notice it. His last obsessive journey around the block had brought his stagnating health into sharp focus. He was always being observed and scrutinized, by Momma, by Beau, by Peter, by Ross, and by his own mother, who seemed to take it upon herself to force some sort of confrontation more often than the others.

Paris had done his utmost to avoid her for the duration of the party, leaving her to chat with Momma and Beau while he spent most of his time with Peter and some of the younger Gallo/Merlo cousins (and second cousins), or making eyes at Chris across the veranda while Chris went on struggling not to make eyes at him in return.

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” he said. He lifted his shoulders to shrug out some of the tension that had developed in them. “I had to go to the bathroom. Someone was already using the one in the kitchen, so I came upstairs to use mine. Sometimes it gets tiring having people stare at me all the time. I wanted a break. That’s all.”

“That’s fine, Baby,” his mother replied, “but you have to understand our concern.”

“There’s nothing to be concerned about. I’m fine.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Well even then it doesn’t give you any right to spy on me.”

“I wasn’t spying on you,” his mother returned. “I came up to make sure you’re okay. I don’t blame you for being upset, Baby. I’ve never blamed you for it. I understand what you’re going through, I only wish you’d let me help you.”

“I don’t need any help,” Paris ground out, swinging his gaze back to her with a mutinous glare.

She was right about one thing—they went back and forth about this very issue so many times. Once or twice he’d accepted her comfort and support. Other times all it did was make him feel smothered, yearning for the freedom to do what he wanted without having to worry about what other people thought.

His mother paused to stare at him, and then seemed to come to some sort of a decision as she straightened again and said, “I think you should see a therapist.”

“What?” Paris gawked at her, his arms loosening from his chest in surprise. He took a moment to feel offended before he replied, “I am not going to see a therapist.”

“Why not?” she asked him.

“Because I don’t need one,” he insisted.

“I think you do,” she said patiently. “I think it’ll help.”

“No.”

“Baby…”

“I am not going to sit there and talk to some quack about me and Dad or me and Chris or whatever else they feel like digging up. It’s no one else’s business what I think or how I feel unless I decide to make it their business.”

“I have a therapist,” his mother told him.

Paris showed more of his anger and annoyance than the shred of surprise the statement elicited in him. “Well, good for you, Mom. I still don’t need one.”

“Baby, if you would just-”

“I said ‘no!’”

Paris shoved himself forward to stalk around her, feeling cornered in the doorway and suddenly too confined in his room with her standing there with a level of concern that was suddenly too much for him to handle.

Logically he knew that she was only looking out for his best interests, and there was even a part of him that might admit that she was right. But it was overshadowed by the much larger part of him still struggling to admit that his grief might have taken a turn into dangerous territory. He didn’t want there to be anything wrong with him and so he denied that there was. He didn’t feel comfortable expressing these sorts of emotions—not to his mother, or to Momma, or even to Chris.

A stranger would be worse, he thought. He wouldn’t even know where to begin to open up.

His mother turned after him, and though she didn’t reach out to restrain him, the suddenly authoritative sound of his name on her lips had him pausing before he could cross out into the hall.

“Paris.”

Stopping in his tracks was the only sign he gave that he acknowledged her.

He heard her shoes shuffling against the floor, and even though he couldn’t see her with his back turned, he imagined her hands were doing that instinctive fluttering over her stomach again—if she couldn’t touch the one baby who always seemed to be pulling away, he assumed it was something of a comfort to her to be able to touch another one so easily.

“I’m trying, Paris,” she said quietly, mournfully. “I’m trying, but you have to help me.”

He didn’t know what to say in response. He didn’t know what to do or think or feel, or if he should do or think or feel anything, or if the fact that he didn’t want to meant something was terribly wrong with him. He couldn’t deal with the confusion or the pressure. He didn’t know how, and he was already too scared to try.

It was easier to just brush it off and keep moving forward. He could pretend he was fine and hope everything sorted itself out in time.

“I’m going back outside,” he finally said.

He didn’t bother standing around after that. Before his mother could argue, or before the silence could stretch to a discomforting length, Paris stalked out of the room to stomp his way down the stairs.