Chapter 18
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
ANNIE
“I don’t understand.” Mom stares up at me with worry lines creasing her otherwise smooth skin. She’s lying on her back at the foot of the bed with her head hanging off so she can stare up at me upside-down.
“Which part?”
“The part where I’ve met Miles and he’s a little shit. Aren’t you supposed to go through your bad boy phase in high school?” She makes puppy dog eyes at me.
“I was too busy passing AP Calculus so I could get college credit.” I pat her head. “You should have encouraged me to rebel more in my youth. I’m a woman now. The bad boys can drive and buy motorcycles and sneak me into bars.”
She scrambles around on the bed to get herself upright. She studies me with mock, wide-eyed horror. She needs to get some hobbies that don’t involve me.
“He has a motorcycle?”
“A sports car.” And he speeds a lot but I don’t think she needs to know that detail right now.
She gets a faraway look in her eyes. “Well… I have always loved a sports car. Your dad drove this cool Porsche when we met. Actually, you might have been conceived in that car.” She gets lost in her memory as I try not to gag.
I don’t want to think about my dad right now. I especially don’t want to think about the two of them having sex.
“Oh, c’mon. You went to public school. You had basic sex education… I think.”
“Only barely!” I put my hands over my ears and head for the bathroom. My curling iron should be hot and ready to use. There’s nothing wrong with my naturally straight hair, but I need something to do to expend some of my nervous energy.
And maybe some loose curls will help me feel like someone else for tonight. Someone who can picture herself on a date with a guy like Miles Morino.
Mom cuts me a break while I work on my hair for twenty minutes, trying to perfect every curl. I growl under my breath when one piece near the front refuses to twist the way I want.
“Let me.” Mom nudges the door open like an unruly cat and slips into the tight bathroom with me.
She takes the curling iron from me and expertly works on the troublesome section of hair. Her tongue pokes out hilariously to one side as she squints in concentration. Her hair is full of volume with bouncing natural curls that look perfect even after a full day of her chaos.
“If only I had your hair,” I muse. Her hair has always been so beautiful that strangers even stop to comment sometimes on her glossy, effortless curls.
My mother’s hair has practically been a supporting actor in our lives.
“Don’t say that,” she chides me. “I would have sold my entire cassette collection in high school to have straight hair like yours. I only embraced my curls because after you were born I had more important things to worry about than trying to tame my unruly hair.”
Wow. “I can’t fathom a world where you don’t have a cassette collection.”
“I know.” She nods stoically.
Luckily, her collection of cassette tapes was in the car when the bed and breakfast caught fire. She’s managed to hold on to the entirety of her collection except for one Fleetwood Mac cassette that she’s always sworn my father stole from her the day she told him she was pregnant with me.
“Hey, kid?”
“Yeah, Mom?”
She pauses, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “Don’t jump from one asshole to the next, okay? Make sure this one is treating you well and if he isn’t, walk away. Don’t follow my bad examples, Annie. You’re worth so much more than a guy who doesn’t see you for who you are.”
Her words choke me up. There’s something knowing in her expression, too, like maybe she suspects my sudden relationship with Miles isn’t on the up-and-up.
I knew she wouldn’t approve if I told her the truth. The guilt is already eating me up inside.
I’m the first to break eye contact.
“Now, what about makeup?” Mom asks, her hands already rummaging in my small makeup bag perched on the edge of the sink.
“I thought I would just keep my makeup natural like this,” I admit.
Her head jerks up so she can stare at me in horror. “Daytime makeup? For a nighttime date?” She shakes her head so hard her curls smack her in the face. “I swear I don’t know who raised you.”
“Oh, I know this one.” I raise my hand and wave it excitedly around like a young teacher’s pet.
“Gosh, let’s see.” Mom pretends to scan the tight space for willing volunteers before tapping her chin and then pointing at me. “Annie, do you know the answer?”
“Yes, I do. I have it on good authority that I was raised by the milkman.”
Mom gasps dramatically, clutching her chest. “How dare you mock me? And I never said you were raised by the milkman. I only tried to convince you that he was your real dad.” She smiles mischievously.
“Honestly, your parenting is really solid.” I point to my face. “So… Night time makeup?”
“Don’t worry, darling. Mommy will make you look more available than Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.” She grabs her own, larger makeup bag. She owns three times as many eye shadow options as me.
“You’re going to make me look like a Hollywood prostitute?” Surely she realizes the flaw in that plan.
She muses for a moment before withdrawing an eye shadow palette in shades of neutrals. “Right… maybe we go more Zooey Deschanel. We’ll frame your big, beautiful eyes but otherwise keep things pretty natural.”
“That sounds like a much more reasonable choice for someone who barely got public school sex education.”
“You’re my hero,” Mom says in between giggles.
She’s mine.
My smile stretches wide across my face as she sets to work improving my plain makeup. Her ability to perfect eyeliner around my round eyes is a skill I envy endlessly. I watch her work in the mirror, taking the moment to appreciate my mom fussing over me.
As much as she gets on my nerves sometimes with the constant talking and sometimes obscure references, her mind is brilliant. She’s funny and quick-witted. Her memory is impressive. When she slows down a little, her emotional intelligence is so dialed in. She sees people. She sees me.
Sometimes I’m just not sure how well she sees herself.
The bed and breakfast fire should be covered by insurance. My mom should be getting paid out with enough money to start rebuilding. Or if she doesn’t want to build back on the same land, she could sell the lot and use the money to buy a new bed and breakfast. The process to get the insurance to cough up what they owe her seems to be moving at a glacial speed. I can’t remember the last time she had any real updates to share.
“Okay, now you look perfect.”
Mom steps to the side while I focus my attention on my reflection. She managed to upgrade my normal look without making me look like I tried too hard or morphed into a completely different person.
“This is perfect. Thank you.” I quickly clean off the sink counter since the mess adds up really quickly in such a small space.
Mom gives me a quick squeeze before sliding past me out of the bathroom. I follow behind her, already feeling far more confident, as if she’s painted me in battle paint and not just light cosmetics.
I stop in the center of the room and hold my arms out as I ask, “Okay, what do you think of the whole picture?”
“You look fantastic. Way too good to be on an elitist shithead’s arm, but he did keep you safe when Cameron turned into a complete ass so I guess I’ll let the shithead thing slide for now.” Mom slips a leather cuff bracelet off her wrist and onto mine. “Perfect.”
“Thanks.” I twirl the cuff around my arm a few times. Mom is pretty stingy about her accessories usually.
She might be saying she doesn’t approve of me having a relationship with Miles; her actions are telling me otherwise.
We both freeze to listen to a firm, single knock at the door, followed by a more hesitant second knock. We lower our voices to whisper to each other, knowing the door is thin and sound travels easily from inside the room.
“Do you think that’s him?”
I nod. “Unless you’re also expecting a gentleman caller?” With her, you never know.
“Nah. Why buy a cow when I can ogle my hot boss for free?” Her eyebrows wiggle teasingly.
I wag my finger at her and warn, “Be careful. You need this job until insurance pays you out for the fire.”
I know how to handle my mom heartbroken. I’m not sure I’m prepared to handle her heartbroken and potentially unemployed.
“Oh, I have news about that.” My mom’s face lights up with pride. “I forgot to tell you that Luca is helping me with the insurance company. He did all this fancy paperwork for me to try to pressure them to stop avoiding me.”
“Are they avoiding you because you wouldn’t stop singing Whitney Houston to them?” I overheard some of those calls. I cannot even remotely begin to explain what I heard on her side of the phone.
“No!” She tips her head to one side and purses her lips. “Well, maybe.”
Good grief. I splutter out a laugh as I make my way to the door. There’s another hesitant knock just before I unlatch the door and open it to greet Miles.
“Hey.”
He looks good in a gray button-down shirt and dark jeans. His hair is a little damp as if he showered recently. I’m instantly hit by how good he smells. He must be wearing cologne, which seems like a bit much for a fake date.
“Hey.” Miles stares stoically back at me, his eyes only briefly straying to take in a quick peek at the motel room behind me. “Ready to go?”
“Let me grab my phone.”
I leave the door open while I grab my phone and wallet to stuff in my jeans pockets. I don’t know what our plans are besides Miles telling me I could dress casually. I make sure to smooth down my cream blouse and wave goodbye to my mom before I turn.
I can tell by the grim expression on Miles’ face when I face him again that he’s taken in my temporary living space much more thoroughly now. I know the place sucks but I don’t want to hide my current reality. I didn’t do that even with Cameron—though Cameron did refuse to pick me up from the motel after the first time he saw the place. He never even got out of the car, either.
“This is where you’re living?” Miles winces as the two kids staying in the room two doors down begin shrieking. “How do you study here?”
“Noise canceling headphones and a lot of caffeine.” Like enough caffeine that my veins might be more coffee than plasma at this point.
He shakes his head and smirks. “I am so worried about your body.
“Hey!” Mom shouts from inside. “No worrying about bodies until she’s thirty! I’m up for a parenting award this year and you are not going to mess that up for me!”
Miles lowers his voice to ask, “Is she serious?”
“She hasn’t been serious a day in her life,” I reassure him, reaching behind me to pull the door shut. Our date has officially begun.