No one has ever laid eyes on my mom and called her anything less than exquisite. Strangers say her beauty is only matched by the kindness and warmth she exudes. They rave about her welcoming smiles, the long embraces, and encouraging words she freely gives to everyone she meets.
I’ve never met that woman though. Never had her eyes shine with anything but cold criticism when she looks at me. A never-ending catalog of my faults and shortcomings reflected in her irises. Constant suggestions, about how I can be something more than a disappointment who shares her face but none of her grace and perfection, fall from her lips.
“Thank you for being so understanding, Mom.” I rub at my temple, praying the headache that’s been threatening to bloom at the front of my skull doesn’t take flight. “Did you need anything else?”
“No. Please text your father and let him know you won’t be able to make it today.”
I bite back a bitter laugh. Of course, she can’t be bothered to pass along the message.
“Okay. I’ll let him know as soon as I hang up with you.”
“Great.” She huffs. “And Sloane?”
“Yes, Mother?”
“Please make sure to let us know which day you decide to grace us with your presence. I have several engagements scheduled this week, and I won’t be happy if I have to miss them just to accommodate your lack of planning.”
My mouth drops open. Did she just say that to me after calling me with some last-minute plans about brunch? “Got it. Talk to you later, Mom.”
The faint clinking of glass lets me know my earlier thought about her sitting at her vanity was correct. It was a common sound in my childhood. One that punctuated the rare moments I spent with my mother in her bedroom before she promptly dismissed me.
“Goodbye, Sloane.”
When she hangs up, I tap out a quick message to my dad, apologizing for breaking our nonexistent brunch plans and promising to call him tomorrow to make dinner plans this week. His response is immediate.
Dad:No worries, bean! I’d be happy to see you whenever you have time. Dinner later this week sounds amazing. Maybe I’ll put some steaks on the grill? :)
The smile his message puts on my face almost makes up for the fact he gave me Cruella de Vil for a mother.
Sloane:That sounds perfect, Daddy! I’ll come over on Friday.
With my promise kept, I decide to take my mother’s advice and get out of bed. Thirty minutes later, I’m freshly showered and dressed, sitting on the couch and sliding on a pair of shoes when my doorbell rings.
Surprised, I pad over to the door and open it to find a smiling Mal on the other side, holding two cups of iced coffee in her hands. I move to the side to make space for her to pass through the doorway, and she shoves one of the cold plastic cups in my hand.
“Good morning, sunshine!”
“Morning.” I take a sip of my iced caramel macchiato. “What are you doing here? I thought we were meeting at Mama’s.”
“We were, but I wanted to check on you first. You know…” She gives me a significant look. “After last night.”
I walk over and pull her into a short hug, leaning back to look into amber eyes that are a little too similar to the ones I miss more than anything in the world.
“I’m fine, Mal. I promise.”
It’s not a lie. As scary as last night was, I know it could have gone completely different. The scenario Dominic rescued me from has played out in huge, life-altering ways for far too many women in the world. My heart beats a little harder at that knowledge, and gratitude I expected to have dissipated a bit by now swells in my chest for him again, turning my thoughts to the man who appeared in my dreams all night.
His lips. His eyes. His hands on my skin.
“Good!” Mal chirps brightly, pulling my wayward mind back to her. “In that case, let’s go. Mama has already sent me a list of things she needs from the store.”
I grab my purse, keys, and phone and follow Mal out of the door. “Didn’t you just take her to the store yesterday?”
Mal throws her hands up in exasperation as she unlocks her car. I laugh, knowing from the one small gesture that Annette has been riding her daughter’s nerves since early this morning. Once upon a time, those calls would’ve been coming to Eric’s phone. Waking us up at the crack of dawn with reminders to stop by the store and pick up milk, eggs, flour, or another ingredient she needed to make dinner that day. Now, those calls go straight to Mal, and Mama doesn’t care if her daughter is asleep, hungover, or snoring in the arms of a naked stranger: she still calls.
Mal backs out my driveway. “How was the ride home last night?”
“You tell me. I slept through the whole thing.”
