by Jenna Scott
That afternoon, when I get to my dorm, I pack my bags for the awards weekend.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Camilla
The hotel where the LA Book Awards are being held is in Beverly Hills and it’s really nice, on par with the one Hunter took me to after the spring formal last year. Speaking of which, the memories of that night are still way too fresh in my mind. Every memory with Hunter stays that way, it seems.
So as impressed as I am with the chandeliers and the marble floors and the modern black leather and chrome furniture, it’s still not enough to distract me from my fight with Hunter this past week. I haven’t even figured out if we’re broken up or not. If he decided it was best for us to just cut ties so he can go find himself a girl who’s happy to have him act like an overprotective helicopter boyfriend who wants to single-handedly decide everything she does with her life.
Luke and I took the train down to LA early this afternoon. He was glued to his laptop the whole way, typing away at his Great American Novel, which was fine with me. I spent the trip doing homework and reading and enjoying the view. Then we shared an Uber to the hotel to meet up with Professor Laurens, and now the check-in desk associate is handing us the keys to our rooms. Laurens is getting a suite, and Luke and I are registered for separate standard rooms. I’m kind of looking forward to having my own king-size bed to roll around in.
All of us get into the elevator, but only Luke and I get out on our floor. The professor’s suite is a few floors up.
“We’ll meet back in the lobby around eight,” he says, giving us a little wave.
I check the time on my phone—we have just over an hour to get ready for the awards ceremony. I don’t own a lot of nice clothes, but Olivia was thrilled to loan me a little black dress for the event, and I had a pair of simple black heels to match. I definitely wasn’t trying to roll up in a ballgown or anything, especially since I planned to take full advantage of the catered meal being served during the ceremony.
“This way,” Luke says, rolling his suitcase ahead of me down the carpeted hall. He stops in front of a door and turns to me. “I’m in eight-zero-twenty-two. You?”
I check the number that’s written on my keycard in black sharpie. “Eight-oh-two-three. Guess we’re neighbors.”
He unlocks his door and I walk past him to the next one to slide my key into the reader. As soon as I walk in, I go straight to the closet to hang up my dress, but it’s not actually the closet. It’s a door facing another door.
Which immediately swings open, revealing Luke. “Well hello there, neighbor. Fancy running into you again,” he says. “Our rooms are adjoining. How convenient.”
“Super convenient,” I say, forcing a laugh. “Anyway, see you in a few.”
With that, I close the door on him and get settled in—which basically involves kicking off my shoes, hanging up my dress so it won’t wrinkle, and depositing my shower stuff and makeup bag in the bathroom.
Before I get in the shower, I send Isabel a text asking if she’s in LA for the weekend. I just want to be able to get my mind off the whole Hunter debacle (which I haven’t told her about, because I really don’t want to hear her say I told you so), and I’d just about kill for one of her trademark bear hugs.
Her response is a series of crying emojis, and she says she’s in La Jolla with her parents for the weekend. Shame. It would’ve been great to dunk on Hunter over some virgin cocktails at the fancy hotel bar. I know Isabel would appreciate the ambiance.
Next time though, I promise! she texts.
I send a few kissy faces and tell her I have to get ready but that we’ll catch up soon. Then I get in the shower and get to work washing the sweat and travel off me.
My hair and makeup are pretty easy to handle, now that I have the combined makeover skills of Isabel and Olivia under my belt.
First, I blow-dry my hair upside down so it has a bit more volume, adding some anti-frizz cream to keep it sleek. Then I tie it up into a slightly messy bun on the top of my head, which looks a bit more done-up than leaving it down and loose. My makeup is fairly low-key as well—BB cream, mattifying powder, a swipe of mascara, and a burgundy lip for a pop of color. Then I zip myself into Olivia’s dress, which is strapless satin with tiers of asymmetrical ruffles cascading down the knee-length skirt. I slip on my heels and a black blazer as the finishing touch and check myself out in the floor-length mirror, pleased to see that I look both professional and appropriately semi-formal. Laurens said “cocktail attire” and this outfit is spot-on.
A knock sounds on my door, and I open it to find Luke.
“Damn, Camilla,” he lets out, eyes raking me from head to toe.
I frown at him, glancing nervously down at my dress. “What?”
“Nothing.” He straightens the cuffs of his dark suit. “You clean up nice.”
It’s kind of cute that he’s this awkward, especially compared to his usual cocky arrogance. “Thanks. So do you. Shall we?”
We get in the elevator together, and I’m so excited I can barely stand still. There are a few other people in the car and they’re dressed up too, so I assume we’re all heading to the same banquet hall for the awards ceremony. One of the women looks vaguely familiar, and I’m trying to figure out if I recognize her from an author photo while Luke talks my ear off about how kidlit and romance are basically destroying the publishing industry and literature in general.
I just smile tightly and nod along, since I’ve had enough arguing this week already. The woman I’ve been subtly checking out catches my eye, though, and flashes me a sympathetic eye roll and a smirk. It perks me right back up again. I have a pretty strong suspicion that she’s a YA author, since she’s wearing a navy velvet dress with embroidered stars on it that just screams epic heist fantasy writer.
We reach the lobby, and the doors ding open. Luke grips my elbow, steering me toward a column where Professor Laurens is waiting for us.
“Right on time,” he says, tucking his phone into the pocket of his blazer. “They’ll have some remarks for us when we first sit down and then we’ll have dinner. They don’t start announcing the awards until dessert.”
“Sounds great,” I say.
He gives me an easy smile. “You look beautiful, Camilla. You’ll be sure to dazzle this evening. Shall we head over?”
“Thanks. Let’s do it.” I make myself smile back, though his comment makes me a tiny bit uneasy. It’s not that I’ve ever gotten a weird vibe from him, even when we’ve been alone in his office, but ever since Hunter tried to convince me the man wants to get in my pants, I’ve been on high alert.
Which is actually kind of annoying. I don’t need Hunter’s paranoia rubbing off on me. And I’m sure the professor is just being nice—I usually don’t bother with makeup when I go to class, and I obviously don’t dress up, so Laurens has probably just been trained by his wife to acknowledge when a woman makes an effort on her appearance. That’s all. And if I dare say so myself, I do look good.
“Do you want to take my arm while we walk?” Luke offers. “Can’t be easy walking in those heels.”
“I’ll manage.” I sound way too curt, so I add, “But if I start having a hard time, I’m happy to take you up on your offer.”
I put my best game face on, and we head into the gala.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Hunter
It’s been a shit week.
First, my little brother called me crying because he misses our dad (the prick won’t answer the kid’s FaceTimes, even though they only see each other once or twice a week now that Karleigh and Harrison moved out), then I found out I’m barely passing Bio thanks to completely bombing the midterm, and to top it all off I got in a huge fight with Milla about some weekend getaway she wanted to go on with her creepy English professor. We haven’t spoken since, and now it’s Friday afternoon. I’m hanging out at home on the couch with nothing but my crushing guilt to keep me company.
As hard as it is to admit it, I
think I pushed her in a way that I had no right to.
The thing is…when I think of her being alone with other men, and possibly finding herself in a vulnerable position, I want to punch a wall. I’m not worried about her cheating on me—I know she wouldn’t do that. It’s everyone else I don’t trust. Especially not after she told me the full story about what happened to her at La Jolla High. How can I not be on edge about it?
Milla’s got to be on her way to LA at this very moment. With that professor. And that other TA, Luke. Who is definitely not gay, because that would make things too easy. I’ve seen the way those assholes look at her. I know the way they look at her. They’ll pounce on her the second she gives them a chance.
Shit, between the professor and Luke, I don’t know which one is more likely to make a move. With me not having spoken to Milla for days now—fuck. Was that a breakup? Does she think she’s single right now? What if one of them makes a move to comfort her, and…no. I can’t let myself think like that.
The worst part is, if anything does happen, it’ll be my fault for driving her away. If I had kept my cool, maybe I could have had a real discussion with her about the whole thing. I could have offered to go with her. Not that I’d insist on escorting her around the event or anything, but I could at least be there for her and hang out in the hotel room waiting for her.
Instead, I’m trapped here in my apartment, alone and feeling like a dick. I miss my girlfriend. I miss having her next to me, I miss the way she—
The sound of the doorbell echoes in my apartment. I jump off the couch, hoping it’s Milla, that she’s about to walk in and tell me she thought better of it and didn’t go to LA after all.
But when I open the door, the last person I’d ever expected to see again is standing out in the hall. “Mom?”
“Hi, baby.”
What the fuck what the fuck what the—
“What are you doing here?” I abruptly ask.
She smiles. “After all these years, is that how you greet your mother?”
“I—no. Come in,” I say numbly, my mind completely blown. I stand back and let her walk by me, not because I want her inside my place but because the alternative of arguing out in the hallway is the greater of two evils.
It’s been well over a decade since I saw her last, but of course I recognized her immediately. She hasn’t changed a bit. Blonde hair hanging in a limp ponytail down her back. Bright blue eyes that mirror mine, except for the way they dart shiftily around my apartment. Those bony wrists, the sunken cheeks, the hollows around her eyes. She looks older than her years, lean and wiry. Uppers will do that to you. Her clothes, basic jeans and a blouse, hang from her body like she’s a hanger.
And…she’s still not clean. It’s obvious from the way she’s twitching.
“Look at all this,” she murmurs, turning in a slow circle in the living room. “You’ve done pretty nice for yourself.”
“Dad’s the one paying for it,” I tell her bitterly. “I’m just here for school.”
“Of course you are. My brilliant boy.”
Her what?
I’m still too stunned to fight the feeble hug she gives me, or to brush off the hand that comes up to touch my cheek. My stomach is in knots, my heart practically beating out of my chest. I wasn’t prepared for this.
“You look good,” she’s saying. “And so tall. Your grandfather was tall, too. You don’t get that from your dad.”
Her eyes are on mine, and I can see how glassy they are. How dilated her pupils are. Did she seriously decide to just show up on my doorstep all jacked up on amphetamines? And why?
“Are you…in town for something?” I’m trying to be conversational and appear unaffected, but truth is, I’m shaking on the inside.
“I found out you were at Stanford from your social media,” she says, as if that explains her sudden appearance after—God, how long has it been? Thirteen years? “You weren’t so hard to track down. Just took a few phone calls.”
She lowers herself onto the couch, snuggling into it, making herself at home.
“Uh, can I get you a drink or something? Coffee, tea?” I don’t know why I’m pulling the happy host act, but I don’t know what else to do or say. This is all such a mindfuck. I’ve spent years dreaming of this moment, of her coming back, and yet now that it’s happening…it’s making me sick to my stomach. I don’t trust it one bit.
“Tea would be nice. Do you have any green?”
“I think so. Let me check.”
I head to the kitchen cabinets and find the tea Milla sometimes drinks at night. Fucking book event. I wish she was here right now, acting as a buffer between me and my deadbeat mom, or at least offering emotional support while I freak out in a corner.
But no, I had to pull the asshole boyfriend card. It’s just like me, to fucking fuck up everything.
The kettle whistles and I pour the water over the tea bag, then bring my mom the cup. She’s still on the couch, eyes wandering around the sparsely but expensively furnished room.
“Here you go,” I say, setting the tea on the coffee table. “I didn’t know if you wanted honey or anything.”
“This is good. Thank you.” She leans forward and picks up the cup, but doesn’t sip. “So how much does a place like this cost, anyway?”
Ice goes down my spine, stiffening my body. “I don’t know. Like I said, Dad pays for it.”
“Is Thom still in real estate?” she asks. “You still have the big house in La Jolla? Gosh, that was a great house. Up in the hills, that huge pool.”
“Yeah, Dad’s still there…” I sink into a chair opposite her, my knees starting to feel too weak to hold me up.
We sit in awkward silence while she sips her tea. Every second that passes by has me more and more on edge. It’s like having a ghost sitting in front of me. But it’s not a place that she’s haunting—it’s me.
“So…why did you come to see me? I’m just confused, it’s been so long, and…I don’t know. Why now?” There’s no point in beating around the bush.
She lets out a sigh and sets the cup down. “It’s been so hard all by myself. I guess I wanted to see how you were doing, see if your father’s been taking care of you. Giving you the life you deserve. I knew I couldn’t give you that.”
My entire body shudders when she reaches out and squeezes my hand, a million different feelings waging war inside me. I should be happy she’s here, and part of me is, but the rest of me doesn’t care much for the fact that she’s high as a kite, or the way she’s talking to me. Alluding to the money I have, and she, apparently, doesn’t.
“Looking at this place, it seems like he’s provided well,” she says, blowing into her cup again. “He must be rolling in it. He always was. You know, I never went after him for alimony. Isn’t that crazy? Especially with all my medical issues…”
She’s not exactly subtle, so I know exactly what this is. She’s trying to get me to give her money. To guilt trip the son she abandoned into opening his wallet. Must really be out of options if she’s resorting to me.
I try to change the subject. “Are you staying here in town? Do you want to plan something? Go get dinner one night, or whatever you want?”
“I am, for now.” She drinks, ignoring my questions, but as she’s setting the cup down, her hands start to shake, spilling tea onto the table. “These old hands. Let me get something to wipe this up—”
She starts to rise, but I wave her off.
“I got it. It’s okay.” I go into the kitchen to grab a few paper towels, trying to breathe through the crushing sensation in my chest. Depressing is too mild a word to describe the sight in front of me. This is my mom, and she’s here—finally here—and I should be happy, but all I feel is gut-wrenching sadness.
“Thank you, sweetie,” Mom says as I clean up after her mess.
Something else is bothering me. “You said you made a few calls? To find me?”
“Your father picked up his cell, shockingly. It was a br
ief call. As I’m sure you can imagine.”
Well, fuck you, Dad. He probably gave her my address just so he could wash his hands clean of her and toss her to me like a hot potato. Like dealing with her mess is my responsibility because we share genes.
If Milla were here, she’d know what to say, how to act. Her whole life, she’s been dealing with a mother who’s an addict. Honestly, I’m not sure which of us has it worse when it comes to moms. All I know is that this is a disaster. I feel sick and hollowed out inside.
I don’t know what Mom has been saying, but when I focus back on her, it’s something along the lines of how she misses Southern California, how hard it’s been for her moving from place to place without any “security.” Meaning money. It’s not like I can’t take a hint, even if she hasn’t come right out and asked for it.
“Well, this has been great, but I actually have to get going,” I tell her. “You caught me just as I was about to leave.”
Mom looks disappointed. “So soon? Where are you rushing off to?”
“LA. I have to meet my girlfriend at this book award thing.”
“Oh, Hunter! I saw the pictures on your social media. You two look so good together.”
For a second, I don’t know what to say…I get that she’s trying to act like a real mom, but this just feels like a whole lot of too little too late. You can’t just show up on your estranged son’s doorstep and expect to be welcomed into his life with open arms, no harm no foul, after being gone for his entire childhood.
“Right, well. She's waiting for me, so…”
“Of course.” She gets up, digging around in her worn-out bag. Then she scrawls something on a scrap of paper. “My address. In case you want to come by. But I’ll try you again sometime.”
“Yeah. Cool.”
I take the paper and put it in my wallet. I don’t know if I’ll be able to muster up the courage to actually visit her, since it hurts to see her like this and I’m almost afraid to find out how she lives—but at least I have the option if there comes a time when I feel differently.
