Chapter Forty-Three
LEXI
Istare at the ceiling, listening to Mom getting ready for her day. She’s an early riser, and even though I’m still exhausted, the jet lag is real. I’ve been lying awake for two hours already, replaying everything that happened my last morning on Ne’emba Island.
I haven’t told Mom yet. When I arrived late yesterday afternoon, I wasdone. Flying from one outpost in the world to the next, changing flights four times, isn’t something I would recommend.
“Lexi!” Mom had said when she opened the door. She ushered me into the apartment—as it was freaking snowing outside, which happens in Alaska—and gave me the longest hug. God knows I needed that hug, and when she wanted to pull away, I clung to her and burst into tears. When she said something about me and being in a pickle, I cried even harder.
“This sounds like more than a mere pickle,” she’d finally added.
“I don’t want to be called a pickle or be in one ever again,” I’d sobbed between hiccups, and that was the end of it.
We didn’t talk any more, but she’d made me sweet tea while I took a warm shower and then gave me some soft fleece pjs to sleep in. I don’t have any winter clothing with me—I never planned a detour to Anchorage, but once I flew into Heathrow and memories of Tristan putting that ring on my finger hit me, I couldn’t go back to Miami and Evan’s place. Not with the pile of questions he’d ask and everythingTristanstill in his house. And Tessa’s in LA wasn’t appealing either. I didn’t want to go anywhere but home—and right now home is wherever Mom is.
When Mom passed me one of her menopause sleeping pills with instructions to “just take half” as it would “help with the jet lag,” I didn’t protest. I was out by seven last night, but now…I can’t avoid this reality any longer.
I get up, pull on one of the shawls Mom seems to accumulate during her travels, and head out to face the music.
Her two-bedroom apartment is open-concept, and as soon as I step into the living area, the scent of brewing coffee hits me.
Mom looks up from the kitchen counter. “Hey. You’re feeling better?”
I nod and bite my lip. This is going to suck.
“Want some coffee?”
“Please.” I scuffle over to the counter and settle on a barstool. “Sorry to descend on you like this.”
Mom isn’t exactly private, but I’d be stupid to think she doesn’t have her own life here. For all I know, I could’ve knocked on her door while she had a friend over. Aboyfriend. Not that I’ve ever met anybody. Not that I’ve ever asked. I mean, how do you dig into your Mom’s love life without it being awkward, especially since she never says anything in the first place.
Mom gets busy with the coffee and also pops some bread in the toaster. She sets out a jar of Nutella. She knows me so well. And she’s waiting, very patiently, for me to open up.
I take a deep breath and huff it out on a longSoooo… “Ne’emba Island and Beaumont didn’t work out.”
“Ah, sweetie…” Mom shakes her head. “Why?”
“I quit.”I might have to put that in writing at some point…
“Why?”
I bite the bullet. “Because I lied about being engaged to get the job, and I couldn’t do that anymore.”
“Engaged?” Her eyes are wide as she puts the coffee pot back on its stand. “To whom?”
I’m going to have to explain everything from the start, but Mom will need to fill in the gaps. I plan to leave many. “Tristan went with me with Ne’emba Island. The jobs were for a couple, so we faked an engagement to get the gig. He needed somewhere fabulous to finish his TV series, and I…I wanted to get out of the country and away from this whole Mia Reed mess…” I trail off, remembering I have an NDA.
“By the Mia Reed mess you mean the video.”
“You know about that?” I ask, not encouraged by the look on Mom’s face.
“Evan filled me in once I made the connection between those trending videos and you. I’m your mom, Lexi; I’d know my daughter’s face anywhere.” She reaches over and pats me on the hand. “St Chalamet never deserved you.”
“I couldn’t tell you. I’m not supposed to talk about it at all.”
“I know. But that’s water under the bridge now. What’s this thing with Tristan?”
God. She’s going to drag it out of me. “I’m sorry. I should have told you over Christmas… Only I couldn’t.”
