“If he wanted to see me, he would call,” I say lightly, rolling my shoulders from the tension there.
“Oh, you know your dad.”
“I do. Which is why I know he’s not interested in having father-son time.”
“I understand how he can be. But that’s why I’d love for you to see him. We’ve—we’ve started talking. Discussing maybe trying our relationship again. But now he’s being difficult.”
“Mom. No. That always ends in disaster. Mostly for you,” I say with a sinking feeling. My parents do this toxic thing with each other where they get back together for a few months every few years, until one of them breaks it off in a spectacularly dramatic fashion. It’s usually my dad doing the breaking it off.
“I’m not sure if I’m the best person for the job of buttering him up.”
“You could at least try, dear,” she admonishes. “Remind him of the good times.”
I don’t ask her what good times. Though it’s tempting.
She’s silent, waiting. And I know she won’t relent until I agree. Finally, I sigh. “Fine,” I say, knowing it’s useless.
I never seem to be able to say no to her, despite everything.
“Wonderful! I knew you’d come through for me. You always do,” she trills. “Oh. And I don’t suppose you could send me some money? I’m a little short this month. Life can get quite expensive.”
“What happened to the bank transfer I made a few months ago?” I ask. “The money you wanted me to invest in your fashion line.”
“That didn’t work out,” she admits quietly. “There were some problems. The company went in another direction. And the money…” She trails off, sounding embarrassed for once.
I warned her the deal sounded too good to be true and tried to get my lawyers involved.
“It’s fine, though.” She forges on more cheerfully. “If your father and I get back together—”
“I’ll send more,” I say, cutting her off. Disquiet swirls in my gut. The last thing she needs is my dad around.
I decide I’m going to talk to my father today. But not to remind him of family bliss like my mother wants.
“Thank you, darling,” she says, sounding much warmer now. And relieved. “Oh, I have to go. We’ve arrived at the yacht!”
I hang up and slip my phone into my pocket, wishing I could call Emma to talk. Except,boundaries.
She’s always made things lighter. Better. I miss those few short months when Emma lived with me. We didn’t do anything special. We hung out. Had movie nights. She’d get her snacks, and I’d get my plain popcorn. She’d eat mint chocolate chip ice cream. We’d watch classic films and argue about which to choose. I’d smirk when she invariably chose a rom-com, and she’d give me shit whenever I’d pick some dark, obscure cult classic.
That’s one of the many things I like about her. I always know where I stand. She doesn’t kiss my ass. She tells me the unvarnished—sometimes uncomfortable—truth. And when you’ve lived your entire life in Hollywood, that trait is deeply attractive.
But after months of living together, things changed. She suddenly got distant, saying she needed her own life.
Which made me wonder if maybe movie nights felt like work to her. And wonder if, maybe, despite what I thought, I don’t truly know where she stands. Especially lately, when she’s been talking about boundaries again.
Anddating.
Still deep in thought, I wander outside, past my patio and pool, padding across the dew-tinged grass barefoot until I reach the cliff. I watch the sun play on the crashing waves, feeling the familiar early afternoon air wrapping me in its warm, salt-tinged hug.
I don’t want to go out. But I don’t want to stay in.
I have the world at my feet. I can command most anything at the snap of a finger. At the push of a button. At a look. So why isn’t that enough?
I turn back to the imposing mansion. The expansive pool is still. The chairs surrounding it empty. And I know the cool tile in the house will echo the sound of my footsteps as I walk through the rooms.
A desperate restlessness takes hold.
I type out a message and then call my driver.
