by Willow Aster
“That’s great, Mom.”
“I’m in the city. I’d love to see you. Start over. If you’re willing to give me a second chance?” Her voice is soft, and I can hear all the emotion.
It’s not really a second chance she’s asking for. It’s more like the hundred and thirtieth chance, but who’s counting?
Me. I’m a Type-A numbers girl. I’m always counting.
“How long are you here?” I say, and I hate that a lump has lodged in my throat.
Don’t let your guard down. You know better.
“For as long as it takes, Em.”
I flutter my lashes because I can feel my eyes welling, and I will not cry.
I don’t cry.
I made a promise to myself when I was thirteen years old that I would not shed another tear over this woman again. And I’ve stuck to it. Hell, I’ve never cried over anything else since either, because once you decide not to allow yourself to feel all the hurt about your mother rejecting you, it turns out nothing else hurts all that much either. Not if you’re careful and not if you’re smart about who you let into your circle.
“All right. How about dinner sometime?”
“Tonight?” She sounds so hopeful and my chest squeezes. The thought of having her in my life does something to me. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that seeing Mya and Estella together, and even the way Jesse’s mom was with her kids when I spent Thanksgiving with them—it makes me yearn for something I’ve spent my whole life chasing and never found.
My mother is never going to be that for me.
So, instead, I went after career aspirations. I’ve always been the top student in my class, I’ve worked hard to feel worthy, and yet, here I am, feeling like a thirteen-year-old girl whose mom wants to spend time with her. I glance down at the clock on my phone and it’s almost seven PM, but I’m actually hungry and curious to see if she’s really got her shit together.
“Yeah. I could meet now. You want to go to Goldy’s?” It’s the diner near our old apartment that we used to eat at together.
“That sounds great. Do you mind if I bring Bob? I’d love for you to meet him. Oh, honey, he’s such a good man.”
She had a good man once. My father. And that wasn’t enough. He gave her every chance in the world too. Hell, he supported her through treatments, and relapses, and disappointments. And she still walked away from both of us.
“Sure. That’s fine.”
I haven’t seen her in six years, and now I’m meeting her boyfriend? It’s always been her way or the highway, so this isn’t out of character.
“Okay, we’re on our way. We can be there in twenty minutes. I can’t wait to see you,” she squeals.
I nod, even though she can’t see me. My guard is up, but I want to let it down. I want to believe this time is different. But I know better.
“I’ll see you soon.”
I stack my files in a neat pile on my desk and push to my feet. I grab my coat and hurry down to Mya’s office.
“Hey, girl. How late are you staying?” I ask.
“I’ll walk out with you now. I’m meeting Jesse for dinner.” She pushes to her feet to grab her purse and coat and we head to the elevators.
“My mom called,” I say, my voice just above a whisper as we step onto the elevator.
She startles and her eyes double in size. “What did she say?”
“She asked me to meet her for dinner. She said she’s sober and doing really well and wants to have a relationship with me. Start over.”
“Wow. Em. That’s ... a lot. How do you feel?”
“I feel fine.” I’m always fine. My mother can’t change that. Not anymore.
“It’s okay to not be fine, you know. It’s okay to be nervous or cautious or angry.”
I shake my head as we step off the elevator and make our way out to the street. “I’m not any of those things. Really, I’m good. Stop worrying. It’s dinner. I’ll call you later.” I pause to hug my best friend who studies me like I’m keeping a secret from her.
“Okay. Will you call me as soon as you get home? Otherwise, I will show up at your place, and you know I’m not kidding.”
I laugh. Mya is family. She always has my back.
“I promise. Go meet Hot Hair. Have fun. I love you.”
“Love you more. Call me later,” she shouts as I turn right and she turns left.
I make my way to the diner, and when I pull the door open, my mother rushes me. We look nothing alike, aside from our figures, although Yaya claims these breasts are from her. But my mother is the same height as me and she has a small waist and an hourglass figure. But her hair and her eyes are dark. I got the blonde hair and blue-green eyes from my father. And I’ve always been grateful that when I look in the mirror, I don’t have to see the face of the woman who walked out on me looking back at me. But she is beautiful, there’s no doubt about it. Her dark hair is pulled back in a chignon, and she’s wearing jeans and a cream sweater.
She looks good.
Healthier than the last time I saw her.
She’s still a bit gaunt, which is how she’s looked for as long as I can remember. But now she has color in her cheeks and she smiles at me as she takes me in.
“My God, baby girl. You’re beautiful.” A tear runs down her cheek and my breath catches in my throat.
I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
Pain is weakness leaving the body.
It works every time.
“Thank you. You look good,” I say, as she wraps her arms around me and hugs me tight.
She smells like lavender just like she always did.
Well, when she didn’t smell like whiskey and weed.
“Come on. I want you to meet Bob. He’s the man responsible for my transformation.”
Bob is sitting in a booth and moves to his feet. “Emma, I’ve heard so much about you.”
He stands a few inches taller than me, and he’s rocking the salt and pepper look; it works for him. I’m not sure how much he could have heard about me, since she doesn’t know much.
We take our seats just as Dee Dee comes around the corner. She’s worked here for as long as I can remember, and I love her. Dad and I eat breakfast here almost every Sunday and we request to sit in her section. I’ve always thought there was a little something there between her and Dad, but my father is the king of brushing me off. When her eyes land on my mother, she stiffens.
“Veronica, wow. It’s been how long? A decade?” Dee Dee asks, and her voice is much harsher than usual.
“Since I’ve been in here? Probably. I’m focused on today, not yesterday.”
Well, this new higher-level thinking is not typical Veronica Kingsley banter. She usually gets defensive, cries, and that’s her excuse for falling off the wagon.
“Does your dad know you’re here?” Dee Dee asks me, and my stomach twists.
My dad will not be happy that my mom’s back or that I’m here with her. My mother is a sore subject for us, obviously. He doesn’t like the games she plays, but I wanted to see her first before I speak to him about it so I can assess the situation.
“No. This is very last minute. I’ll see him tonight though.”
“We’re ready to order, Dee Dee,” my mother says, making it obvious she’s done with this conversation. “I’d like to spend some time with my daughter.”
Dee Dee nods and we place our orders quickly before she walks away.
“So, your mom tells me you’re an amazing student and a brilliant lawyer. She sure does brag about you a lot,” Bob says, and he wraps an arm around my mother.
This is interesting since she just found out I was an attorney thirty minutes ago.
It’s a weird phenomenon sitting across from the woman who gave birth to me, and we don’t know one another at all.
I don’t know this person, yet I came out of her vagina.
Is that weird?
It definitely is.
“Thank you,” I say, and I
’m relieved when Dee Dee sets our waters down and winks at me. “So, how did you two meet?”
“We met in the program. I’m a recovering addict,” Bob says proudly.
“That’s great. How long have you both been sober?” I say, unsure if that is the politically correct way to ask. But then again, the woman left me to figure out how to put in a tampon on my own and forced me to shop for my first bra with my father—so being PC does not seem like a priority at the moment. They look at one another, nod, and both take three breaths before Bob turns to me.
“I’ve been sober for nine months and I will allow your mother to tell you how long she’s been sober as we make an effort not to speak for one another. She has her own voice and I encourage her to use it.”
Say what?
“Thank you, my love. It took me a long time to find my voice, and Bob respects that.”
From what I remember, the woman was always screaming and shouting, and finding her voice had never been a problem. But these two are like a walking, talking therapy session with their calm voices and long pauses between speaking.
“I’ve been sober for three weeks.”
Houston, we have a problem.
I’m not an addict, but from what I’ve heard, two addicts that are fairly new to recovery have the potential to take one another down. Most especially my mother who is not even one month into sobriety and leaning on a man she could easily derail.
“How long have you two been together?” I ask, and they both do that weird thing again.
Look. Nod. Take three slow breaths before facing me.
Dee Dee sets down our food and I figure I can get in a few bites before these two find their individual voices to answer the question.
“We’ve been together for two weeks and living together for one week.”
Wow. Two whole weeks, and she needed to bring him along to meet me? I’ve done juice cleanses that have lasted longer than these two have been together.
I nod. “Do you live here in the city?”
“We’re living with my brother in the Bronx for now until we get our own place.” Bob turns to my mother quickly. “I’m sorry. I should have allowed you to answer that one.”
I silently groan because this is painful. So I decide to focus on my grilled cheese sandwich instead. Goldy’s has the best bread and though I’m sure it’s Velveeta cheese and not organic, it’s my favorite comfort food. My phone vibrates, and of course, it’s my bestie. The girl always knows when I need her.
How’s it going? Come to Mean Mug and meet us for a drink when you’re done. Jesse and I are heading over there in a few minutes. You can fill me in.
I think it over for about thirty seconds, and it’s a no-brainer.
I’ll meet you there in forty-five minutes.
I figure these two in front of me will be married in the next half hour if their track record is any indication. And I don’t really have any more questions to ask her.
“So, you’re a lawyer now? Do you live in a big fancy house?” my mother asks as she cuts a tiny piece of steak and feeds it to Bob. I want to vomit. Why is she feeding him, and who orders a porterhouse steak at a diner? You get soup and salad and sandwiches. It’s a diner, for God’s sake.
He takes a bite and leans forward and kisses her.
I’m so third-wheeling on this date and wonder why I’m here.
I clear my throat. “Nope. I live in the apartment above Kingsley’s Auto Shop. Dad and I renovated it.”
“Oh. Aren’t you making enough money to live somewhere nice?”
I want to remind her that she’s squatting at her lover’s brother’s house, so glass houses, but I don’t insult her.
“I like where I live.” I take a sip of water and set my glass down.
“I was hoping maybe we could stay with you for a little bit so that you and I could spend some time together. You know, real quality time. But that place is pretty small from what I remember. Not any larger than where we are now,” she says, and my jaw drops open.
It’s rare for someone to catch me off guard, but she has. And she and her two-week soul mate are not moving in with me. Hell to the no. Not happening.
“Yeah, that isn’t going to work.” I shrug.
“Oh. Well, that’s okay. Can I see you again this week?” She glances over at Bob and winks. “What if we do a girls’ date? Just you and me? How does Thursday sound?”
I nod and reach for my wallet when Dee Dee pulls the check out of her apron and sets it on the table. I pull my credit card out, waiting to see if they will jump in, and they don’t. I hand Dee Dee my card and her face hardens.
“Oh, thank you. I’ll treat on Thursday night,” my mother says.
I nod. A part of me wonders if they just brought me here so they could get a free dinner and find another place to stay.
But a small part of me sees a difference in her. Maybe one hundred and thirty times is a charm.
The jury is still out, but I haven’t lost all hope.
Not yet at least.
And a stiff drink with my best friend is exactly what I need.
Chapter Seven
Spence
It’s been a helluva day and when I walk into Mean Mug and see the brothers and Mya already hanging out by the darts, looking like a live freaking Hallmark movie, the one where the guy and the girl are new to the city and hilarity ensues when the girl acts like she can’t play darts in front of her new boyfriend but totally can…
Anyway.
I head straight for the bar.
I don’t want to nosedive their mood with mine.
Caden sees me from across the room and lifts his beer with a grin. I try to smile back, but it must be more grimace because his grin falters. Damn.
Just then a cheer erupts when Mya centers a dart. She does a little strut dance thing that is so cute, I do smile for real this time.
“Ah good, I was afraid you were still in the funk you’ve been in all day,” Caden says. Dude got over here fast.
I turn and level him with a glare, just as Allen slides my beer over.
“Shit, still foul as ever.” Caden laughs and puts his arm around my shoulder. “What’s got you so—?”
My attention is drawn to the door behind him, and he turns around to see who I’m staring at. She looks worse than I feel. Emma does the same assessment I did when I walked into Mean Mug, and she ends up next to me without realizing it, her eyes still on the clan. Gus is now singing some song about a target and a ghost of a smile lights Emma’s lips.
But she looks defeated.
Her vibrance faded.
Caden squeezes my shoulder before he moves away, heading back to the group. He’s always had a sixth sense about how to deal with me. Pretty sure he can read my mind, that one.
“I need to change it up tonight, Allen,” Emma says. “I’ll take the strongest martini you can make.”
“Not a Chardonnay night?” I ask softly and she jumps, her eyes closing for a few beats.
When she opens them, she still doesn’t look at me. “Not tonight, Spence. You’re the last person I need to see right now.”
My dick usually feels a healthy dose of fear and awe when she uses my actual name, but even it seems to know tonight’s not the night. And I thought I had a buffer where Emma is concerned, but her words sting nonetheless.
I’m silent, watching as she gets her drink and downs it faster than a nun at Christmastime. I have no idea if nuns drink quickly, or at Christmas especially, it’s just something Uncle Pete always says.
“Another, please,” she says to Allen. She glances over at me for the first time and the sadness in her eyes is like a slap to the face. I feel the strike. “You can stop staring anytime.” Even her voice is subdued.
“Emma—” I notice she seems to have the same reaction when I use her real name and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing … probably the worst thing. “Are you—”
Mya walks up behind her then and hugs her and Emma leans
into it. “I’m so glad you came. I want to hear every—”
“I’ll be right over,” Emma interrupts, turning to face Mya. “Just enjoying this drink first. It’ll calm me.” She smiles wider now, but her knuckles are white against her glass. “Keep playing. I want to see you nail those G.D. Taylors to the wall.” She glances at me and smirks, but I don’t believe it this time.
What the hell is going on with her?
“Are you sure?” Mya asks, glancing at me and comes in for a hug. “Hey, Spence.”
“Looking good over there,” I tell her. “I especially like your victory dance.”
Mya laughs and looks at Emma again. “We can go sit in that booth over there.” She motions to the quiet booth in the corner, past the high-top tables.
“Soon,” Emma says, holding her drink. “I’m preparing.” She points to Jesse. “Let me see you whip that boy.”
Mya nods and squeezes Emma’s arm before heading back to Jesse. “I’ll give you five minutes and then you’re mine, Emma Kingsley,” she says over her shoulder.
“Always knew you wanted me, Mya Whitfield,” Emma sings back. “I’ll take one more, Allen.”
Jesus. I’ve never seen her drink like this. Allen sets the martini down in front of her and glances over at me to make sure I’m aware and I nod.
“Hey, I’m really sorry about this morning. You know, for pissing you off. I was only kidding about the croissant,” I say, keeping my voice low so only she can hear me.
She downs her third cocktail and stares down at the empty glass.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. That was on me.”
“You want to talk about it?” I ask, because suddenly I need to know what’s going on with her. As much as we give one another shit, I don’t like seeing her like this.
“You would never understand, Grumpleton. Trust me.” She runs her long, slim fingers over the stem of her glass.
“Why do you think that?”
“Because you have the perfect family. You have what everyone wants. The parents who were probably at all of your sporting events, and I’m guessing you all sat down to eat dinner together every night.” She shrugs, and her gaze locks with mine. Her words are slurring a bit, and I hope she’s not going to order another because I know it will be a fight when I tell Allen to cut her off.
