Her eyes sweep over me first, then they land on Haven.
“Darling! You came!”
I expect her to dismiss my girlfriend. I cleaned up for this. My hair is slicked back into a man bun, dark slacks and a navy blue shirt—the same outfit I wore to The Railyard earlier this week—but I might as well be invisible.
What I don’t expect is the gleam that springs into my mother’s eyes when she sees Haven.
She looks…happy?
Which is fucking impossible, but even the well-practiced Sharon Jordan can’t fake her way into such a genuine expression.
She pulls me into a hug that reeks of Chanel No. 5 and hairspray. I stand there like a mannequin, arms at my sides, until she releases me and turns to Haven.
“And who is this lovely creature?” Mom’s voice drips with sweetness. “I wish you’d told me you were bringing a friend, Kai!”
Haven’s smile is tight with confusion. “It’s me, Mrs. Jordan. Haven.”
“Oh, please, call me Sharon.” Mom waves a manicured hand, the massive diamond on her finger catching the light. “Mrs. Jordan makes me sound ancient!”
“Our trailer was right next to yours,” my girlfriend says.
Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition.
“What a lovely name!” She titters as she ushers us inside.
Haven throws a wide-eyed look my way, but all I can do is shrug.
I can’t explain my mother’s behavior. She knows who Haven is. Sure, the last time Sharon saw her, Haven was just a kid, but surely…
Maybe the Uber went through a wormhole and we’re in an alternate reality.
That would explain this.
The smell of lemon polish, fresh flowers, and roasting turkey can’t quite mask the faint undertone of my father’s cigars. If there’s one thing I can give my mother credit for, it’s that she always kept our homes spotless. Even when we lived in the trailer park, our single-wide was the best-kept rig around.
“You have a beautiful home,” Haven says carefully, throwing me a quizzical look over her shoulder.
Home.
None of the houses we lived in could be called a home. But at least this prison’s got crown molding and a three-car garage.
“Aw, this old thing?” Mom laughs, gesturing at the sweeping staircase, the crystal chandelier, the oil paintings. “It’s terribly outdated. I keep telling Richie we need to renovate, but you know how stubborn men can be.”
I snort to myself, and Haven elbows me in the ribs.
As if that hadn’t been directed straight at me. It’s my mother’s favorite word for me. Stubborn. Mulish. Pig-headed.
But her personal favorite?Difficult.
“Come, come! Dinner’s almost ready.” She herds us toward the dining room, her heels clicking against the marble floor. “I hope you don’t mind helping me with a few things, Hayley. The staff have the evening off, so we’ll have to serve dinner ourselves.”
“It’s Haven,” she corrects stiffly, and I don’t fucking blame her. Looks like Mom’s pregame has reached god tier levels in my absence.
My mom doesn’t seem to hear her, adjusting one of the place settings on the massive oak table.
One ofsixsettings. Six chairs. Six cloth napkins folded into elaborate swans.
Haven notices too. Her hand finds mine, squeezing.
