Made To Love

by S. M. West

  Coming from a marriage where I always felt like I was lacking no matter what I did—so much so that I actually gave up for a while, faded away—I can’t imagine dating someone younger. I could never keep up.

  “I’m a forty-two-year-old divorcee with two practically grown kids and a new and risky small business.” I can’t help but smile despite how freaking scary it sounds. “I’ve got enough on my plate right now. A guy is the last thing I need. What I do need is you and I want you in my corner, but you need to let me find my way.”

  “Darlin’, I can do that, but I won’t stand by and let you discount yourself. You deserve the best. You’ve come so far in such a short time. You should be proud of yourself and you should celebrate,” he encourages. “Many would have bailed on life. You didn’t. I won’t let you forget that.”

  I rest my forehead on his, peering into his warm eyes. Before, I never knew I needed Jonah Carson in my life; now I can’t imagine my life without him.

  “Oh, sorry,” Millie gasps from the doorway. Turning, the petite ginger, Jonah’s personal chef, is flustered and beet red from head to toe. She abruptly turns, heading back the way she came.

  In three long, quick strides, Jonah’s at her side. Gently placing his hand on her elbow, he halts her retreat. “Millie, it’s okay. What’s up?”

  She averts her gaze, scanning the room, faltering when she lands on me. A brief but discernible flash of resentment—or something close to it—flits across her features before she looks away. With her big baby blues regarding Jonah, it’s clear as day, and it all makes sense.

  She has a crush on her boss.

  “I’m so sorry. I was…um, I was…checking that everything was okay,” she barely whispers, her eyes now stuck on his Adam’s apple. Her hands mangle the dishcloth and I wonder what the hell it ever did to her.

  “Everything was wonderful,” I pipe up, attempting to break the tension. “I’d love to devour your sorbet, but I’ve run out of time. Besides, I don’t need the extra calories,” I add in my default, self-deprecating manner. “Thank you so much, Millie. It was truly divine. Jonah.” He turns to me. “I’ll see you Thursday.”

  Walking toward me, I raise my hand to stop him. “Don’t worry, I’m swimming tomorrow,” I reassure.

  I usually see him five days a week, but there are times when a celebrity client is in town, as is the case right now, then he rearranges his schedule to squeeze them in. I forfeited my time with him tomorrow so he could exercise with some Hollywood bigwig.

  Like me, most of his clients are accommodating because Jonah is just that kind of guy. Despite how much agony he puts me through, I’d reshuffle my life for him.

  Restarting his walk my way, he warns, “You better.”

  His arms wrap around my back, pulling me in for a hug, while Millie’s visible over his shoulder. Every twitch and squirm of her body confirms my suspicion. The lovely Emeline Walton is attracted to Jonah, her narrowed eyes give away her detestation at his focus on me. I wish to end her misery, but by the look of things Jonah is oblivious. She silently scurries out of the room.

  Breaking our embrace, my mouth curves into a Cheshire grin as I drawl in my best Scarlet O’Hara impersonation, “Why Mr. Carson, I do declare, I think you have a secret admirer.”

  Furrowing his brow, he tilts his head to one side with a puzzled expression. “What?”

  “Miss Emeline is smitten with her boss,” I playfully deliver, fiddling with the collar of his shirt while he continues to examine me in bafflement.

  “Ah, you’re too transparent,” he finally says with a sly grin. “You’re playing with me. You’re trying to get me all ruffled. This is because I suggested meeting Brad, isn’t it?”

  “Nope. Millie has a crush on you. You should’ve seen the daggers she was throwing my way while you hugged me, even though she didn’t completely own it.”

  He laughs, batting my hand away from his shirt. “Cut it out. You’ve got no clue what you’re talking about,” he says, quickly refuting my claim. “Listen, if you change your mind about tonight, we’ll be at Swig. Text me and I’ll come get you,” he adds like the mention of Millie’s infatuation never happened.

  Now it’s my turn to study him and wonder. He seems uneasy with my observation, quickly dismissing the idea and changing the subject. I’m eager to push, but if I do, I need to be prepared to get the same back in spades. I’m not in the mood, nor do I have the energy for that kind of repartee right now. I enjoy trickery and games with Jonah, but I’m not up for playing with my heart.

  “Ah, trust me, I won’t change my mind,” I fire back with a big assuring smile. “But thanks for inviting me. Besides, I have the kids this week and I’m saving my empty calories for my trip to Montreal next weekend.”

  “Montreal?”

  “Yes. Girls weekend away. Sin, Erin, and me.” I grin, unable to conceal my delight at the prospect.

  “Sin? She managed to get a weekend away from the kids?”

  “Yep. It was her idea,” I volley another surprise at him. “In fact, Colin’s taking the weekend off so he can watch the kids.”

  Arching his eyebrows, he does a triple shake of his head like a Looney Tunes cartoon character. Colin is a dear, but works like a fiend.

  “I’ll see you later.” I wave, then wink at an awkward Millie, who has slipped back into the room.

  Olivia

  I’ve got a date with chicken salad, Penny Reid, and a vodka martini. I need a drink tonight, and I deserve it—I landed the freaking account! Eliza Preston loved my ideas for her new hotel and was thrilled with my suggestions on palette and ambience for the public spaces like the lobby, bar, and spa. Landing this account is beyond my wildest dreams, and it’ll put me in martinis, chicken salads, and all the Penny Reid books I want for a while.

  I enter the house to pitch blackness and hear muffled sounds, like someone talking in the background. As I carefully walk through the darkness, a stream of light glows from the back of the house.

  For now, I’m renting an executive townhouse in the Annex. It’s literally three streets over from where I used to live—or I should say, where Pete and I used to live. He got the house. As much as I loved the place, I didn’t want any part of our old life together.

  When I found this spacious three-bedroom for rent, I loved it. The only thing holding me back was the price, but Pete didn’t flinch at the cost. As an investment banker, he makes money hand over fist, and like I said, he hasn’t withheld any.

  Entering the family room, Paige is prone on the leather sofa, watching The Walking Dead on her tablet, her thick brown hair fanned out on the arm of the couch.

  A smile graces my lips. It’s been a week since I last saw her, and my heart skips with delight and trepidation. I love her like crazy, but our relationship has been a work in progress since she hit her teens.

  Seriously, what mother-daughter relationship isn’t during the teenage years? Still, we’ve drifted apart more so since the separation, and things have been rough between us for months.

  Our custody agreement is one week on and one week off with Mondays as our switch days. She was supposed to be here last night, but she had a volleyball tournament and asked to sleep over at her best friend’s. I was torn, wanting her here with me because I miss my kids when they’re with their dad. But to keep the peace, I gave in and let her stay the night.

  “Hey sweetie,” I whisper, my lips gently kissing her satiny, soft hair.

  Paige hardly acknowledges me with a look close to, if not certainly of annoyance. At times, she barely tolerates me, and there are moments where I’m persona non-grata. When she’s in the anti-mom camp, she doesn’t hide her anger and frustration at my leaving her father. Despite trying to explain it to her, to make her understand that it was the hardest decision of my life, she doesn’t want to hear any of it. All the blame lies with me; her father is the saint and I’m the pariah. Needless to say, our time together can be trying at best, and at worst, downright brutal.

&n
bsp; “How was your game last night?” I ask, sitting on the coffee table and leaning over to stroke her hair.

  Paige rolls her eyes with a short, harsh exhale. “Fine.” Abruptly sitting up, she clicks off the lamp, banishing us into darkness.

  “Hey, Paige,” I call out. She’s on the move as I blink, trying to adjust to the dark. Flicking on the lamp, she silently glares at me like I’m holding her hostage, waiting for me to say more. “Not nice, kiddo. Let’s try this again,” I say patiently. “How was your volleyball game?”

  “It was fine.” Her tone’s softer this time. Gathering her school books and things, she wraps her arms around her belongings. “Um, so I’m going to do homework,” she says, motioning toward the door—her escape route. I’m now used to this tactic and latch onto her shoulder, turning her to fully face me.

  “Hey.” Despite my frustration, fatigue at this routine, and hurt feelings, I remind myself that I’m the adult and try to act like one. “Have you eaten?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you please sit with me while I eat?” I ask nicely. “I’m just going to whip up a salad, it won’t take long. I’d love to hear how your week was.”

  She lets out a heavy sigh like she’s bearing the weight of the world and studies me. I plaster on my most sincere smile, parking my own aggravation at the situation because it’ll only backfire. I only want to spend time with her, reconnect, get things back to the way they used to be, when she eagerly wanted to share her day with me. I was under no illusion that she shared everything, but still she was pretty open on most things, including boys. Now, some days I’m lucky if she can string three words together for me.

  My plan of attack is to kill her with kindness. It’s my last hope. We’ve bickered, yelled, and cried, and none of that has gotten us any closer to the way things were. I wanting things the way they used to be is selfish and likely unrealistic.

  In her eyes, I took a sledgehammer to her life, her family, and her home. She blames me for all of it and what she’s feeling is understandable, so how can I expect things to go back to how they were? It also doesn’t help that she’s a teenager and is thus convinced that she knows everything. I just need to find a way to reach her and make her understand without badmouthing her father. While I had my reasons for leaving him, for walking away from a twenty-plus-year relationship, the last thing I want to do is affect her relationship with him.

  “I’ve got homework,” she repeats.

  “I know, you already said that. You could do it while I eat,” I hopefully suggest.

  “No talking?” she clarifies, contemplating my proposal.

  “Just a little,” I cautiously reply. “I promise to keep it to a minimum so you can get your work done.”

  “Fine.” She sighs and leads the way to the kitchen.

  We work in silence, Paige hunched over her laptop at the kitchen table and me throwing together my chicken Caesar salad. I forgo the martini, despite how much I deserve and want it, and I’ll read after dinner, when Paige is sure to disappear to her room.

  “How was your game?”

  “Fine. We won.” Her monotone voice hits me square in the chest. It’s hard to move past her cold indifference to me, especially when we used to be close.

  Being a stay-at-home mom afforded me the luxury of heavily investing in my kids. I followed Drew’s hockey, soccer, and baseball days, and helped at Paige’s dance recitals and volleyball tournaments. I also assisted with homework, failing relationships, and plans for college.

  Fortunately, my relationship with Drew is as strong as ever. He doesn’t know all the gory details about the end of my marriage with his father, nor does he want to. He hasn’t picked sides. In fact, on occasion, he’s hinted at understanding why I did what I did.

  I sigh at thoughts of Drew. I miss him. It’s been over a month since he was last home for his nineteenth birthday, but he’ll be back in a few days after finishing his final exams. It’s hard to believe his first year at Western University is done. While so much like his father in some ways, he’s also got a lot of me in him. He’s the best of both of us.

  I try again, switching gears. “Honey, if you don’t want to talk about volleyball, you pick what we talk about.”

  Paige’s big, round brown eyes—so much like mine—pierce my chest like daggers. “I don’t want to talk,” she says with petulant scorn. “I’ve got to get this done.”

  “Paige, I’m trying here. Can’t you meet me halfway?”

  During the separation, things were rocky and at times, intense. Paige held out hope that I’d come to my senses, or that either Pete or she would get through to me. Once the divorce was final, we drifted further apart.

  I so wish I could give her what she wants. I want to find some common ground, a compromise, but I won’t give in at the expense of my needs and happiness. Some might call me selfish and a horrible mother; nevertheless, I must give to myself first if I’m going to be able to give to my kids. It’s like the safety instructions on an airplane: I must put on my mask first before putting on theirs, or else I won’t be able to help them.

  “Why are you dressed like that?” she asks out of the blue, ignoring what I just said.

  Her question throws me for a loop. What is it with this outfit? “Um, I was working. I met with a hotel owner and landed her as a client.” I glow, deliberately sharing my elation, hoping it’s contagious.

  “It’s nice,” she says, so low that I nearly miss it. “You look really pretty.”

  “Thanks.” My smile is uncontrollable. It’s something, a tiny something, but it’s huge to me. I love the moments when she likes me, wants to talk to me. A compliment? Damn, I’ll take it. It has nothing to do with being vain or needing the praise and everything to do with being close to her. Those moments remind me of her childhood when I was her best friend, or at the very least someone she looked up to, loved, and trusted.

  “Ouch,” I wail, there’s blood gushing from my thumb. In my exuberance, I sliced it with the knife.

  “Mom!”

  Her concern is evident as she springs out of her chair and rushes to my side. Gingerly holding my wounded finger like Florence Nightingale, she tends to my injury. Placing pressure on the cut with a towel, she’s able to stem the bleeding. Then she instructs me to take over while she gets a bandage. I could do this myself—it’s not a big or deep nick—but instead, I’m basking in her love and attention.

  She returns with a bandage in hand, asking in a deep, gruff voice, “Moon of my life, are you hurt?” It’s a poor imitation of the magnificent Khal, and a silly smile covers her face, telling me she knows it was bad. I can’t help but laugh, and I do so even more once she joins in.

  “Thank you,” I say once my giggles subside. Cradling her cheek, I lean in to gently kiss the tip of her nose.

  “There you go.” She lightly kisses my thumb, resting it back down on the counter.

  “I need a Drogo hit after that.” I smile at my reference to our shared weakness. “You up to watching some with me?”

  We’ve been known to watch countless episodes from season one just to get our fix. It’s the actor as much as the character we love, and we know our favorite scenes word for word.

  “What kind of question is that? Hells yeah,” she exclaims. “I’ll pop some popcorn.”

  She likes me again. My heart swells with joy. These are the moments that make it all worthwhile.

  Olivia

  As I close my laptop, the honk of a car blares through the walls of my home—my girls are here. Grabbing my bag, I dash out the front door, almost forgetting to set the alarm. Both Erin and Tamsin are gabbing in the front seat of the car, idling at the curb. I wave to Mrs. Foster, my sweet, nosy neighbor who lives across the street. She’s a major gossip who boldly watches and shares the comings and goings of everyone in the neighborhood with anyone who will listen.

  “You off gallivanting?” she hollers like she’s my mother and I owe her an explanation.

  Quickly noddin
g, I duck into the car. I’m not letting the street know my business. “Hey girlies,” I greet them as I slide into the back seat.

  “Let’s get this party started,” Erin shouts as she puts the car into gear.

  “Hey love, how are you?” Sin asks, turning to face me.

  “I’m so ready for this getaway.” I sigh. “I’m going to be super busy once we get back and this is exactly what I need to recharge before all that begins.”

  “Recharge?” Erin echoes, eyeing me in the rear-view mirror, her perfectly arched brow raised in question. “What are you talking about? You’re single, carefree, and have Pete’s money, why do you need to recharge?”

  Tamsin’s eyes widen and her head swivels between us, finally landing with a sharp glare at our friend. I effortlessly dismiss Erin’s callous and clueless response. Having known her for more than half my life, I’m used to her careless comments that suggest everyone else’s life is a picnic compared to her high-stress one.

  She’s a litigator for one of the top mining companies in Canada. Single and career-minded, most of her time is spent traveling, in court, or hooking up. I’ve known her since high school, and she’s one of a small handful of friends I keep in touch with, although she is definitely the closest.

  Her obsidian eyes are still zeroed in on me. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” she flippantly says. “I just mean, I’d love to be a divorcee living off my ex-husband’s money and dabbling in starting my own business.” Her comments are now defensive, practically spiteful.

  She flicks her long, black, pin-straight hair over her shoulder. Her bright red manicured nails catch my eye like sharp claws having drawn blood. How fitting—that’s her speciality. Despite her combative and selfish nature, she can be vulnerable and sweet—or at least she used to be able to.

  She had a strict and cold upbringing. Her father is a stoic, hard man, though he was less so while her mother was alive. She died after a long battle with cancer when we were in high school. After that, her father shut down. Erin only received his attention for academic achievements and consequently, from a young age, Erin developed her ‘I don’t give a shit’ exterior and an insatiable drive to be number one at everything. Underneath it all lies a woman who can be kind and loving.