Page 15

End of First Day of Rehearsals

“Any plans for tonight?” Am I trying too hard? It felt like I was trying too hard. Too jovial, too friendly, too much as we wrapped things up after a day that had started like shit and went downhill from there. The surprise visit from Mom threw me in a big way, sticking in my head and making it virtually impossible to concentrate on anything the scenic designers presented during our meeting.

Why would she bring Isobel around? The whole thing was a sick joke, and it seemed as if I was the only one not in on it.

“Nothing much,” Winter replied with fatigue in her voice. “I might try to catch up on some much-needed sleep.” She was going out of her way not to look at me. Is it because of Isobel? I wanted to ask, but then how pathetic would that look if Isobel had nothing to do with it? I was making all this shit up in my head, imagining her wanting me the way I still wanted her and had from the moment I set eyes on her in the restaurant. There I was, thinking I had pride, and all it took was this one woman to change my entire opinion of myself.

But it didn’t matter, I realized, as I watched her gather her things and wished she would look at me just once. Then again, what could I do? How could I explain that Isobel meant nothing? She was merely someone Mom thought was right for me. I was thirty-two years old, for fuck’s sake, and still wondering how the hell to get my mother to quit her goddamn meddling.

Maybe I did have pride, after all, since it wouldn’t allow me to admit Mom’s machinations and how she somehow managed to assert her influence.

Still, I had to say something. Winter’s mood had gone frostier than ever after the introduction to Isobel. These were the first words we’d exchanged since the meeting afterward. “I want to tell you I appreciate all the work you’ve done with the cast so far,” I ventured. Oh, right, that sounds a lot more natural. You’re hitting it out of the park, champ.

“It’s what I do. And if I didn’t know how to do it…” she added as she slung her bag over her shoulder, “… then you wouldn’t have wanted the show, right? But thank you for noticing,” she concluded, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind her ear before looking at the floor. “I better get going. Have a good night.”

Wait. Don’t go. Fuck, it would’ve been so easy to say that, to abandon my pride and let her see what was really going on. Something held me back, freezing my tongue before I could form the words because those words would inevitably be followed by others, such as why and how.

Didn’t we ever mean anything?

Why did you ghost me?

How could you leave without saying goodbye?

How could you ignore me when I tried to reach you until I had no choice but to give up?

It was better to let her go, so I did, gathering my notes from our meeting with the lighting and scenic designers. I intended to hand them off to my assistant back at the Bennett offices on my way to the theater tomorrow so she could make sense of them. It took a special, practiced sort of person to read my chicken scratch, but somehow she managed to do it.

I couldn’t get the image of Isobel out of my head as I left the theater, stepping out into a night lit by a million flashing lights that created a sense of disconnection from reality. What the hell was Mom thinking, bringing her here? Reminding me of what I had already refused. This wasn’t the first time she had conveniently ignored my wishes, but the stakes had never been this high. Obviously, she wasn’t interested in what I wanted, how I chose to live, and who I chose to live with.

What’s the big fucking deal?

Rather than head home, I drove the Mustang the familiar route to the mansion I had grown up in in The Ridges. I could make the drive on autopilot, which was good because it allowed me to replay every moment from earlier in the day—the little guided tour I’d been forced to give, answering countless stupid questions, pretending they weren’t as inane as they were. Looking at Mom without snarling was the hardest of all. To pretend I felt friendly toward her when, more than anything, I wanted to ask where the hell she got off meddling the way she did, putting me on the spot. Ironic, considering how many times she had bitched me out for doing exactly the same thing to her.

I slammed the car door, my fingers aching from gripping the wheel too tightly. My pulse still thundered, the adrenaline refusing to fade. The house loomed ahead, but I didn’t pause. Taking the front stairs two at a time, I braced myself.

Her car was in the courtyard. She didn’t normally go out to dinner for at least another hour or two, meeting with one of her many friends so they could talk about whatever empty bullshit was going on in their lives. A bunch of women who had nothing to do but meddle in their children’s business the way she currently did in mine.

Using my key, I went straight inside, my footsteps echoing in the foyer’s wide-open space. “Mom? Where are you?” I called out, my voice echoing as I looked up the stairs. I noticed there were paintings missing from the walls. Redecorating? And she was up my ass for making business decisions on my own?

“Jackson?” Mom appeared at the top of the stairs dressed in a white silk bathrobe, her hair up in ridiculously huge Velcro rollers, and a strange-looking mask covering her face. “What are you doing here unannounced?”

My laughter rang out loudly enough to make her flinch. “You’re kidding,” I blurted out before laughing again. “After you’ve been stalking me and popping up like a jack-in-the-box?”

Folding her arms, she scoffed. “If that’s how you choose to see it.”

So this was how she would play it. Miss Innocent. One thing was for sure, and I could help but blurt it out, “I need a drink.” Turning, I went to the study off the foyer, opposite the sitting room where Mom used to entertain her friends over long, boozy lunches that sometimes lasted through dinner. Those were the days before Dad’s stroke when she had the world at her manicured fingertips.

The study was Dad’s domain. Mom hadn’t changed much about it other than the brands of liquor she kept in the cabinet, which I now had open in search of a good bourbon. Once I found it, I uncapped the bottle and poured a healthy three fingers’ worth before taking a gulp for the sake of blunting my temper. The angrier I got, the deeper she’d dig her heels in and insist she was the wounded party. It was an old dance whose steps I knew by heart after years of practice.

By the time I’d downed most of my drink, she joined me. The mask was gone, at least, and for once, she faced me without makeup. “I have dinner plans in less than an hour and would appreciate you getting to the point,” she said with a sigh, meeting me at the bar.

She wants to hear the point? Fine by me. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I demanded, setting the crystal tumbler down with a thud. “Why did you bring her down there today? What is the point of this? I’ve already told you I’m not interested in whatever scheme you have in mind. I’m not interested in her,” I insisted, watching my words rebound off her emotionless face.

“So you think now,” she murmured, placing a hand on my arm. She still wore the obnoxious engagement ring Dad had gifted her, though she’d been through more than her fair share of men in the years since he died. “Why don’t you give her a chance? She’s a lovely girl.”

“I’m telling you, I don’t care,” I spoke slowly, deliberately, as if it would make a difference when she was only interested in hearing what she wanted to hear. “I am not marrying her. I’m not even interested in dating her. Stop wasting your time.”

Her nails dug into my bare forearm until pain sizzled my nerves. “You are the one who’s wasting time because no matter what you say, this is happening.” Nostrils flaring, she whispered, “You need to get used to the idea.”