“You didn’t wash your hair today?” Mom asked, giving me a once-over.
I had washed everything else the night before in the shower, scrubbing until I was red and blotchy. But she was right, I hadn’t felt like blow-drying my hair, and it was still stiff with product. I’d pulled it out of the ponytail, creating a poufy monstrosity. “I didn’t.”
“You need to. It looks crusty. And your face looks swollen. Did you drink too much last night?”
“Not at all,” I lied, because I didn’t want her to think she was right. “Are you hungry?”
“That woman fed me.”
“Her name is Lucy.”
“If she’s not coming back, why do I need to know her name?”
My mom hadn’t always been so… bitchy. Sure, she was hard on me growing up, expected a lot. But she hadn’t turned grumpy with me until my dad left when I was thirteen to go tour with a symphony in Europe. She hadn’t said it out loud before (surprisingly), but I got the feeling she thought that was somehow my fault. She may have been right.
He never wanted to be a father. He was a brilliant violinist and I was a surprise. Cramping everyone’s lifestyle. I was twenty-eight now. My mom could’ve joined him many times over at this point. But she hadn’t. They had never gotten a divorce. They just existed separately. Both still said they were married, even though his visits home dwindled to nothing over the years.
I didn’t call him after the accident, but Mom had. He seemed concerned. He seemed sad. He didn’t come home.
I picked up a plate from the coffee table and carried it to the sink, where I rinsed it and loaded it into the dishwasher. I sprayed and wiped down the counters, then made myself a cup of coffee, heavy on the creamer.
“I need to make some phone calls for work, Mom,” I said. “Just ring the bell if you need anything.” I’d gotten her a bell. One of the many mistakes I had made since being here. She abused it.
“Turn my show back up,” she said as I headed for the hall.
Instead, I doubled back and handed her the remote. She was cranking up the volume before I’d even made it five steps.
Like I did on the daily, I’d already talked to Raya when I was at the hotel, but now was a more appropriate hour for other calls. My first one was to a server who I was hoping could cover for another server who’d called in sick. It took me threecalls before I found someone. The morning didn’t get any better as I dealt with a vendor that didn’t have our order and my mom’s ever-ringing bell requests. The most recent one was to close the blinds, but not all the way, because she wanted some light. I swear I twisted the adjusting stick one millimeter to the right and one millimeter to the left a dozen times before she was satisfied.
That afternoon, just when it felt like things had settled, I got the worst text of all.
Would tomorrow at four work?
It was Tara. Asking about the therapy appointment. I could get out of this so easily. Just one text.Nowas a full sentence.No, I was drunk last night, I’m not going to do thiswas an even fuller sentence. I typed the words into the text bar. Her disappointed face from the night before made me hesitate.
“Sutton!” Mom’s voice, along with three sharp shakes of the bell, sounded down the hall. “Sutton! I need to go to the bathroom.”
I took in a deep breath.
“Sutton! I need to go now!”
I deleted the words I had just typed and instead wrote,Yes, tomorrow works.
CHAPTER 4
“You’re late,” Pretty Boy said as I entered the waiting room of a small therapy practice. The plaque on the door only had two names:SARA FRANKLIN, MARRIAGE AND FAMILY THERAPIST, andROBERT LLOYD, MARRIAGE AND FAMILY THERAPIST. I wondered which one was ours. The office looked like a regular house from the outside, but inside, the living room had been turned into a reception area with a long desk at the back and chairs along each side wall. My fake fiancé sat in one of those chairs. He was the only one there. I wondered if the receptionist was off for the day. At fourPM, we were probably the last appointment.
I hated being late, and the fact that he called me out on it was even worse. I looked at my smartwatch. “Five minutes.” I hadn’t wanted to come at all. My mom had a rough morning. Had spilled an entire carton of orange juice onto herself and the couch and the floor and probably the wall—I needed to check the wall later. It had taken me forever to clean up.
His eyes traveled down my outfit selection for the day:a pair of jeans, a tucked-in band T-shirt, and a loose blazer. Much different from my cocktail dress from the night we met. But I’d still pulled my hair into a tight ponytail. I hadn’t had time to wash it, yet again, today.
“I’m beginning to think this isn’t important to you at all,” he said, feigning irritation. I could tell by the glint in his eyes that it was just an act though.
Before I could respond, a door opened and a young woman walked out.Youngwas the right word. She might have even been younger than me. She looked about twenty-five. I wondered if this was part of Michael’s strategy: Pick the most inexperienced therapist in the area so she definitely wouldn’t be able to tell she was sitting with two strangers.
“Hello,” she said with a friendly smile. “I’m Doctor Franklin. Nice to meet both of you.” She extended her hand.
Was she even married? How could she give advice to people getting married?
