The confusion I feel from the biting remark outweighs the hurt.I’veperfected the skill? She’s the one who didn’t want me in her life anymore, who cut all ties at the first rough patch in our relationship. But I don’t get the chance to strike back, even if I could find the words, before Dad decides to shut down this oh-so-pleasant gathering.
“All right, well, why don’t West and I let you ladies catch up awhile?” he says like it’s a perfectly natural pivot in the conversation, not a hasty retreat from a battlefront. He even smiles as he gets to his feet, proving that we’re living two different realities. The loud scrape of his wrought iron chair across the pavers is a sound I never thought I’d prefer to Cammie’s voice, but the chair can’t insult me, so. Here we are.
I almost miss the conspiratorial look he and Dr. Alex exchange, too brief to read much into. “Sure, that sounds good,” Dr. Alex agrees with a nod. “We’ll see you at dinner later on.”
Offering the Lovetts a final wave that’s downright jaunty, Dad walks out the same way I’ve come in. He gives my arm a quick squeeze as he passes me, and the message in the gesture is clear:Save yourself while you still can, kid.
I should definitely take the unsubtle hint. But I hesitate, even as the soft thuds of his steps fade behind me.
Maybe it’s all the literal olive branches in our vicinity, one of several tree species growing on the villa grounds that feel too Stereotypically Italian to be real. Or maybe it’s something less benevolent, some petty part of me that just wants to show I’m a bigger person than Cammie. Whatever the case, my feet stay rooted before her and her mom, and my big mouth opens.
“It’s good to see you, Dr. Alex…” I reach up and scratch the back of my neck, beginning to lose my nerve as quickly as it came. I gulp before adding, “And, uh, Cammie.”
Dr. Alex gives me a small smile and a gentle nod of acknowledgment. “You too, West.”
When my eyes flick to Cammie, it’s an effort not to cower.Her sharp gaze pierces through me like a knife, and then her sharper words give it a twist.
“Go to hell, Jacobs.”
As I walk back to the villa, the sun beating down from above and the hot stone path burning the soles of my feet through my socks, I think I might already be there.
Chapter Three
Cammie
The power of a MomHug is frightening.
I want to hold on to my anger. As soon as West is out of earshot, I’m ready to turn it on the deceptive little sneak who gave me life, to rage at her for luring me into this trap. But when she stands and wraps her arms around me, I’m enveloped in the comforting scent of her lavender soap, the familiar feel of her body, both softness and strength, and everything else fades away. It doesn’t matter where in the world we find ourselves; when my mom hugs me, I’m home.
“Welcome back, kid,” she whispers, breath rustling the hair atop my head.
I murmur my response into her T-shirt, feeling like I can’t lift my head from its resting spot on her shoulder. “It’s pretty annoying how I can’t stay mad at you.”
A soft chuckle vibrates through her, her voice taking on abreathy, feigned innocence. “Why ever would you be mad at your dear mother?”
“I can’t remember anymore,” I grumble. “Did you spritz yourself with a sedative perfume or something?”
“I think that’s just your post-travel, post-Weston adrenaline crash hitting,” she says, rubbing a soothing circle on my back. “Why don’t we find you someplace more comfortable to take a load off ?”
She gives me one last, tight squeeze before pulling back. I don’t even have time to process her suggestion before she’s turned on a heel and started toward the villa. It’s a comforting normal for the two of us, Mom blazing a path with her blinders on, five steps ahead mentally and physically while I do my best to keep up.
As we walk, she peppers me with questions about the almost-twenty-four hours since I began the journey here. I do my best to comb through my sluggish brain for details, from lucking out with a row to myself on my flight across the ocean, to grabbing a pretzel on my short layover in Munich, then the saga of my taxi ride.
“After all that, I was so flustered to seehimanswering the door, I just dumped all my stuff on the front stoop before trying to find you,” I say when we’ve nearly retraced my steps back to the villa entrance. “It seems like a lot of effort for a luggage thief to get here, but if they did, they hit the jack—”
I come up short on the foyer’s tile floor when I spot my bags safely tucked against the wall beside a vase.
“…pot. Or not?”
Mom bends to sling my backpack over one shoulder.
“Someone must have brought them in for you,” she says, shooting anisn’t that luckygrin my way.
I nod distractedly, feeling this itch start up at the back of my brain. I don’t scratch the itch, don’t let myself speculate who was responsible for the safekeeping of my worldly possessions, lest I get any wacky ideas about West Jacobs giving a shit about me.
When Mom picks up everything but my small cross-body purse and starts down another corridor like a red-haired pack mule, I have to wonder if she’s trying to compensate for the unpleasant Jacobs-shaped surprise. My tired body isn’t mad about it, though. We make our way down the long, white-walled hallway lined with windows that overlook a sprawling courtyard on one side and numbered doors on the other. Mom explains more about the space along the way.
“The first floor is where I am, along with Dr. Danny, most of the documentary crew, and the field school directors. The biggest difference between our floor and the students’ is that ours has private bathrooms, while yours are communal.” She shoots me a grimace over her shoulder with that news. “I figured you’d rather be with folks your age than room with your mom, but you let me know if I’m wrong about that, okay? And you can always come use my shower if the shared ones aren’t great, or my toilet if you need some privacy, or—”
