“What are you doing here?”
She snorts. “What am I doing here? What areyoudoing here?”
“I live here.” My brow wrinkles. “Speaking of which, how do you know where I live?”
It’s not as if she keeps in touch. Unless showing up every few months for money is considered keeping in touch. Not in my book, it isn’t.
“Some woman at your former apartment building told me where you’re living.”
I groan. I’m going to kill Melanie. I’ll poison her moonshine. No one will figure out it was me.
It’s bad enough, she had me kicked out of my home. She couldn’t send Mom on a wild goose chase? It’s what Smugglers usually do with visitors who aren’t tourists.
“What do you want?”
She plants a hand on her hip and her bangles clink with the movement. The bangles are part of her whole hippie outfit. The hippie movement died in the early 70s – when my mom was still a toddler – but she clings to the movement as if it were her own invention.
She’s wearing a loose, flowing top in tie-dye. She paired it with a long, white skirt. And, since it’s December and chilly, she topped the outfit with a fringe jacket. She hasn’t changed a bit.
“Is that any way to treat your mother?”
I bark out a laugh. “Mother? Some kind of mother you were.”
“I birthed you.”
“Which is pretty much when you stopped being a mother.”
She rolls her eyes. “You always were such a dramatic child.”
“I was a dramatic child because I wanted dinner, but we couldn’t afford it because you’d spent all your money on booze and marijuana?”
She sighs. “I don’t know what your problem is with marijuana. It’s perfectly legal.”
I throw my hands in the air. “I don’t give a shit if marijuana was legal. I was hungry and wanted dinner.”
She dismisses me with a flick of her hand, causing those damn bangles to jingle again. I swear she cares more about those bangles than she does me.
“You got breakfast and lunch at school.”
“In case you missed the memo, there are three meals in a day.”
She definitely missed the memo. Mom is skinny as a rail. Probably because she continues to spend all of her money on booze and marijuana.
For the record, I don’t have a problem with either one of those substances. I’m a bartender on Smuggler’s Hideaway for mermaid’s sake! But when you don’t have money left over to feed your kid? That I have a problem with.
Zane strolls into the living room carrying Adele in his arms. My face heats. The last person in the entire world I want to witness this interaction is him.
Mom’s gaze rakes up and down Zane. I fight the urge to stand in front of him to protect him from her. Mom doesn’t have an issue with age. Young, old, extremely old? It doesn’t matter to her.
“Who’s this?” She actually licks her lips. Licks her lips.
“This is Zane, and the baby is Adele.”
“Baby?” Her lips purse. Did she not notice Adele on Zane’s hip? She’s hard to miss. “Do you have a baby?”
I open my mouth to correct her but she carries on without listening to me – nothing new there. “I thought I taught you better. Children will weigh you down. You’re better off without one.”
“I’m well aware of how you feel children will weigh you down.”
