“Fine,” she says. “I can see you’re not in the right headspace to discuss this rationally. I’ll just stay in my room until you come around.”
“You’ll what?”
“My room, silly. I’m sure there’s more than one in this old farmhouse. I don’t have anywhere else to go, and we’re family.” She settles onto my couch like she’s planning to nest. “It’ll be fun. Like a girls’ trip.”
“Emma, you can’t just?—”
“I’m your mother, Eliza.” For just a second, her mask slips, and I see something vulnerable underneath. “Please.”
The please gets me, just like it always does. Despite everything, despite knowing better, part of me wants to be the daughter who can fix things for her.
But I think about Reed, about the therapy promise we made, about the boundaries my sisters have learned to set.
“Okay,” I say finally. “You can stay, but there are rules.”
Emma brightens. “Of course.”
“No pyramid schemes in my house. No using my relationships for business contacts. And this is temporary—one week, maximum.”
“One week?” Emma’s smile falters. “Sweetie, it’s the holidays. That’s hardly enough time to?—”
“One week, or you can find somewhere else to stay.”
We stare at each other for a long moment. Finally, Emma nods. “Fine. One week.”
I grab my phone and start texting:
* * *
STORM CLOUD GROUP CHAT
EMERGENCY. Mom is here with MLM boxes and needs a place to stay. Send help.
Then I reply to Reed.
Rain check on cocoa? Family emergency. Will explain later.
As I hit send, I catch Emma watching me with that calculating expression I know all too well. One week feels like a lifetime.
I have a sinking feeling even that might be too long.
23
Reed
Eliza’s rain check text flashes on my phone screen, worry nagging at me. Family emergency could mean anything, but combined with her frantic messages yesterday, my gut tells me something’s wrong.
I should respect her boundaries, give her space to handle whatever’s happening. That’s what a mature, emotionally intelligent boyfriend would do.
But I also sort of bailed after asking her to dinner, and we had a barn-chat about both of us needing therapy for our emotional wounds, so I pull into her driveway with two thermoses of cocoa and a growing certainty she needs backup.
Through Eliza’s front window, I can see two figures having an intense conversation. When I knock, Eliza opens the door, looking harried and trapped.
“Reed? I told you?—”
“Who’s this handsome young man?” interrupts a voice from behind her.
The woman who appears is clearly related to Eliza—same stature, similar facial features—but everything else is different. Where Eliza is practical and authentic, this woman is coiffed and artificial, an avatar of what a successful person should look like.
