“Did you think it was for a picnic?”
“A man can hope,” I say from the kitchen, watching her smooth out a corner. “Also, nice maroon.”
She stops, stares sharply at me. “It’s a Pinot Noir. See the light ruby color?” She strokes the blanket, slow and deliberate, and I’m mesmerized by the way she moves her hand.
Her hand.
I’m borderline turned on by the way she’s stroking a fucking blanket.
“Nope,” I rasp, shaking off the inappropriate thoughts as best I can. Then my phone vibrates with a new text from Mom, which is a buzzkill if I ever needed one. And I do.
I pace through the kitchen and open it.
Mom: Did you have any idea how much cheaper Ubers are than cabs???
I start to reply,Yes, Mom,when I spy a ton of messages above the latest one. I must have missed them thismorning when I only glanced at the Golden Gate Bridge fact. As I scroll up, my stomach sinks.
“No, no, no,” I mutter, reading them all in horror. “She can’t be serious.”
Skylar shoots me a curious look. “Serious about what?” she asks with some concern.
A knock on the door interrupts my reply.
My mom’s in town.
17
MOM BOMB
FORD
“How did you get here?”
My mother tilts her head, her platinum blonde, news-anchor hair barely moving as she gives me a look that saysDid you really ask that?“I took an Uber. You’d know that if you responded to my texts. Now, is that any way to greet your mother?”
She holds her arms out wide, waiting for an embrace. My shoes stay glued to the hardwood floor, while Skylar stands behind me. I should hug my mom. I don’t. “B-but you live in Seattle,” I sputter.
“Only for a little while longer,” she says breezily.
My shoulders bunch up. “We were supposed to do this on video, and you justarrived,” I point out, like the absurdity of it will somehow undo reality.
“I called you as soon as I booked my flight.”
“You flew down this morning?” I ask. That’s exactly what the messages I just scanned said, but I’m struggling to believe it, even though the evidence stands in front of me in an Oxford cloth shirt, sensible flats, and her everyday pearls.
“Well, I don’t think she took an Uber from Seattle,Ford,” Skylar points out. “That’s about eight hundred miles.”
That’s a reasonable point. Helpful, even. But is she taking my mom’s side?
Mom, who’s not even supposed to be here right now. The delivery guys are already gone, and it was only supposed to be Skylar and me. But now I know why she was texting Golden Gate Bridge facts this morning—probably because she was flying past it.
Mom turns to the designer, beaming. “Hello! So good to officially meet you.”
She holds out her arms, and Skylar steps in, accepting a warm embrace like they’ve known each other forever. But that’s Skylar. She has this thing about her that draws you to her…whether you want to be drawn or not.
“It’s good that you’re here. I can show you everything now,” Skylar says, rolling with the changes the way I should be. But for some reason, I just can’t.
I clench my jaw. “Mom,” I bite out. “I can’t believe you just showed up.”
