“I’m fine, Mama. I was at a work thing.”
“A work thing? At this hour? While your mother is having a crisis?”
I press my fingers to my temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache that has nothing to do with Chilean Carménère. “What crisis? Are you hurt? Is it money again? Because I already sent?—”
“I can’t tell you over the phone.”
“Why not?”
“Because I need you here. I need my daughter.”
“Mom, I’m exhausted. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
“Oh, I see. Too exhausted for your own mother. Too important now with your fancy job and your ‘work things.’” She lets out one of her signature martyred sighs. “I should have known. You’re just like your father.”
There it is. The nuclear option that she’s never hesitated to detonate. Comparing me to the man who left us when I was three, who I barely remember except as an absence shaped like a father. She knows exactly what buttons to push because she installed them herself.
“That’s not fair.”
“I raised you alone, Eliana. Alone! Is that fair? I worked three jobs, destroyed my back, gave up everything so you could have a better life, and now, when I need you—reallyneedyou—you’re too busy withwork things.”
I stand up, pacing my tiny apartment in my bare feet. The linoleum is cold and slightly sticky in places I don’t want to think about. “Mom, please just tell me what’s wrong.”
“I need you here. Tonight. It can’t wait.”
“It’s past midnight. I have work tomorrow at?—”
“Work, work, work. That’s all you care about. But when I?—”
“Okay!” I cut through her monologue before she can get a full head of steam. “Okay. I’ll come.”
“Really?” Her voice shifts immediately into a saccharine purr. “Oh, baby, thank you. I knew I could count on you. You’re all I have in this world.”
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes. I’ll have to get an Uber, or a— Shit, yeah, I guess an Uber. It’ll take— Just, hold on, okay? I’ll be there soon.”
“Drive safe, baby. I love you.”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
I hang up and stare at my phone. The warmth of Mermaid’s Purse is now completely gone, replaced by the familiar chill of duty and guilt and the exhausting dance of being Georgia Hunter’s daughter.
I grab my jacket and head back out. The hallway feels colder than it did five minutes ago. The stairs seem steeper. Everything that felt light and possible now feels heavy and inevitable.
You just can’t beat your roots. You can kick and scream all you want, but at the end of the day, they’re still there, keeping you stuck in the ground right in the place where you were born. Might as well save your breath and accept it.
When I push through the building’s front door, I stop short.
Bastian’s car is still there, idling at the curb. He’s sitting in the driver’s seat, staring at his phone like he’s having an argument with himself about something. The interior light casts shadows across his face.
He looks up when he hears the door. Sees me. Then he’s out of the car before I can figure out what’s happening.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, just… family stuff.” I hitch my purse higher on my shoulder, already doing the mental math on how long it’ll take to get to Mom’s place on the L at this hour. Do I have my pepper spray with me? It can get nasty on the train at night, especially for a single woman.
His brows furrow. “What kind of family stuff?”
I could demur. It would probably be better for both of us if I just insist everything’s fine, keep it light, keep it professional. But I’mtired, and the wine is still making me honest, and he’s looking at me with those eyes that see too much.
