But avoiding the call would make things worse, so she opened her contacts and scrolled to Home.
Home. She hadn’t lived in her parents’ house in almost ten years, but she would always consider it that. Secretly, she loved that her mother hadn’t changed her bedroom. Loved that whenever she did go back, she could crawl under the ice-blue duvet she’d picked out herself when she was thirteen and rest her head on the matching pillow. The urge to cocoon herself in that kind of safety until everything settled down was real, but she also couldn’t go back. Because as much as that house had been her comfort, it had also been her cage.
The phone rang once before her mom answered. “Cara mia, you’re still alive. I was starting to wonder.”
Vanessa rolled her eyes. To think, her mother accusedherof having an overactive imagination. Well, if she did, she came by it honestly, thanks to her mother.
“Mom, I’m literally a couple of hours late with calling. There have been entire weeks where I didn’t call.”
Her mother harrumphed. “That was the past. Now you’ve been calling every week, and it means a lot to your father and me.” The vulnerable sentiment was very unlike Maria, and Vanessa swallowed past the lump that formed in her throat. “Besides, it’s the only way we know you’re still breathing, because God knows you don’t ever go visit your aunt.”
Zia Ella lived twenty minutes south of the Pearl District, but Vanessa had plenty of reasons not to make the trip to see her nosy aunt.
“Mom, every time I go, she tries to force-feed me or get me drunk on Zio Gambo’s vinegar wine.”
“Because you don’t eat when you’re on your own.”
“How would you know that if I’m on my own?” She swore she tried to hide her snarky tone.
“Because you never let me teach you how to cook!” her mother shot back. “And don’t give me attitude. We’re worried about you.”
Vanessa sighed and reminded herself that this was how her family showed love. With food, smothering, and endless concern. She couldn’t fault them for it. Not when she’d given them plenty to worry about.
“I’ll see her at the fashion show. She bought tickets.”
Her aunt had been among the first to snap up tickets to the show. The Barones were meddling, interfering, opinionated people, but they always supported each other. Through thick and thin.
“Luciana says you’re spending day and night preparing for this show. You’re working too hard. Are you sleeping?”
“Enough,” she lied. Every night, her insomnia was getting worse, but it had nothing to do with the show. Shecouldn’t tell her mother that or she’d be on the next flight to Portland, with natural remedies in tow.
Switching gears, she asked, “Have you started following The Link’s Instagram account? I’ve been updating it with teasers all week, and sharing to my professional account, so we’ve been getting a lot of traction.” Her efforts had garnered local interest, and several designer shops who’d reached out and offered to sponsor clothing for the event.
Her hours of hard work had been paying off in the best way, and she’d seen the positive impact it was having on the girls. And herself. Organizing the event had given her a sense of purpose she hadn’t had in months, if not years.
Her mother’s sigh came across the line, thick with rebuke and quiet disappointment. “Oh, Vanessa, you know I don’t follow things like that.”
Vanessa’s chest tightened, her pride deflating. She forced herself to swallow, but the bitter taste of guilt lingered. She’d always hated how much her mother’s disapproval could affect her. But there it was, that suffocating weight again.
The message was clear as always:You’re still my daughter, but I expected differently from you.
“Right,” Vanessa murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Did you get the plans for the stage your father emailed over?” Maria asked smoothly, leaving the topic of social media behind.
They’d all learned long ago how to avoid matters that might refer back tothe incident.
Vanessa cleared her throat. “Yes, and the wood panels arrive tomorrow. I’m going in early to assemble them and hope to be done by the end of the day so the girls can practice on a proper stage as much as possible.”
“What? You?! Vanessa, you can’t do it yourself,” her mother chided. “It’s too big and heavy.”
“Mom, I never let you teach me how to cook.” Because they’d fought anytime Maria tried. “But Dad taught me how to assemble basic furniture. Remember the Barbie bed I built when I was ten? This is basically the same, but upside down.”
Maria huffed out a disbelieving laugh. “An upside-down bed?Figlia mia, what are you thinking?” She said the last part in Italian.
The line rustled, and her father mumbled in the background, then his voice boomed through the line. “Principessa?”
Princess. Her father’s nickname for her for as long as she could remember. And now Jordan called her that too, but in English. She wondered what kind of sins she’d committed in a past life to deserve this kind of purgatory.
