“Treating you?” I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling a headache coming on. “All I did was tell you I want to go to culinary school and not law school. We talked about this. You said if I changed my mind, you’d understand.”
“Anna.” Her tone is passive when she says my name, but I hear the admonishment. It’s the same tone she had when I was a child and she was reprimanding me. “I thought it was something you were saying in the moment. I didn’t think you were being serious.”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard to stop myself from screaming. “You know how much I love being in the kitchen. You’ve known?—”
“Stop. Just stop. I called you to work things out and instead you’re stressing me out. Your father and I have done nothing but be supportive. We let you go to New York even though there are great schools here in North Carolina. We’ve given you money. We’ve done so much for you, and this is how you repay us? You ungrateful, selfish girl!”
Tears threaten to spill, but I don’t blink. I refuse to cry. “I’m not ungrateful. I’ve done?—”
“Nothing. You’ve done nothing but be a disappointment. I don’t know what we did to deserve this, after everything we sacrificed to come here and give you and Maya a better life. You should learn from your sister. Look at what she’s doing. She’s going to be a doctor! While you’re going to be stuck in a kitchen. A kitchen, for Christ’s sake. It isn’t reliable or sustainable. You’re throwing your future away, and all for what? A job that?—”
“You don’t have to worry about paying for anything. I can manage. I can?—”
“You’re damn right you’ll be paying.” She scoffs so loudly I have to hold the phone away from my ear. “I see that this is going nowhere. You’re a lost cause. Useless. When you finally come to your senses and get yourself together, call me and make sure you don’t waste my time because you’ve already done enough of that.”
“Mo—” The rest of my words die at the back of my throat as she hangs up.
Dropping my phone on my lap, I ball my hands into tight fists. My temples throb and nausea slithers up my throat, past the lump.
“Anna.” Jenny reaches for my hand from the driver’s side, and I almost can’t stand the careful way she speaks my name. I don’t deserve her empathy.
Thank God she’s driving the company car, I would have crashed it.
“It’s…” My voice breaks but I clear it. “It’s fine. I knew this was going to happen. I thought she’d hear me out, but it’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” I turn the dial up, letting “Jingle Bell Rock” blast from the van’s speakers.
Thankfully, she stays quiet. I shouldn’t simmer in Mom’s words, but they grow louder by the second, intensifying in my head.
I remind myself to breathe in and out and forge on through a fresh wave of nausea.
A few minutes later we’re at Sylas’s penthouse. The sickening feeling has somewhat subsided, and my headache has dropped from a seven to a four.
“You’d think with all the money he has, every inch of this place would be decorated. Someone’s not very festive. It’s giving Scrooge.” Jenny grins, jabbing me softly in my side.
I smile a little but falter once I’m standing in the pristine living room. It looks the way it did when we left Monday. It’s strange, usually we’ll find an empty shaker containing the remnants of a protein shake, his shoes, rolls of cloth tape, jackets and sweaters. But it’s spotless, like he’s not been here.
I almost let myself believe he’s gone for the holidays, but then I hear his heavy footsteps coming down the steps.
“He’s here again,” she whispers, staring at me, confused. “Did we show up too early? Too late? On the wrong date? This is weird.”
I shake my head and agree on theweirdcomment. In the three years we’ve been cleaning his penthouse, he’sneverbeen here. Except for a few days ago and now twice this a week.
“Hey,” he greets us.
Jenny, of course, smiles cheerily and waves at him, but I’m not sure how to feel. Though I don’t know what there is to feel. This is his home, after all. He can be here if he wants. Which he is, obviously, and now flashbacks of Friday play in my head.
Jenny elbows me in the arm, interrupting my thoughts. “Huh?”
“Can I talk to you?” Sylas asks me, the corners of his mouth curling upward into a small smile, making his dimples indent on his cheeks. I notice the slight scruff on his jaw as it flexes every few seconds, like he’s chewing on something.
“About?” I’ve been trying to keep my distance from him since our run-in, and I hoped he’d want to do the same.
“I need to talk to you. It’ll be quick. I promise.”
“Go.” Jenny not-so-gently nudges me.
I give her a look, but she feigns ignorance, grabbing the cart and tugging it along with her to the bathroom.
“Traidora.” I glare at her.
