Chapter 15
Mom, the Magnificent
Tessa
When my cellphone buzzed, I checked the screen and winced. Mom. Again.
Already, it was almost eleven o'clock, and she'd been calling me hourly since eight.
Yes, I know I should've answered. But I'd been putting it off, hoping to get back to her tomorrow when I didn't feel too frazzled to think.
I'd been home alone for nearly six hours, wondering what, exactly, Ryder Vaughn knew – and why he was prowling around here of all places.
Sure, he hadn't acted like he was on the hunt. But you didn't amass his kind of fortune by giving away the game.
Like today on the road, he'd claimed he was going to the airport, presumably to fly away, but it's not like I'd seen him go.
My gaze strayed to Maisie's kitchen, where I half expected Ryder Vaughn to pop out of the fridge.
I gave myself a mental kick. If he was there, I had no one to blame but myself.
Seriously, why on Earth had I asked him if he was following me?
Real subtle, Tessa.
Meanwhile, my phone was still buzzing, reminding me that Ryder Vaughn wasn't the only person I was avoiding.
I sighed. Putting this off sounded good in theory, but I knew myself all too well.
Guilt would gnaw at me all night, leaving me even less prepared tomorrow for whatever Mom might say. Bracing myself, I answered with a forced smile, "Hi Mom."
"Don't 'hi' me," she said, sounding sharper than usual. "I was worried sick."
"Why?" It was a genuine question. My mom had no idea that I'd landed in hot water – much less where I'd landed and why. It's not like either of my parents could help.
She replied, "I stopped by your place."
My breath caught. "Wait, what?"
Bowling right over me, she continued. "And guess what I found on your door."
I didn't want to guess. For all I knew, that psycho Evan Carver had scrawled obscenities in chicken blood – or rather, paid someone else to scrawl them, because let's face it, he was too persnickety to dirty his own hands.
But this wasn't what had me blinking in surprise. My apartment was in Chicago, but my parents lived in Southwest Michigan – over two hours away. "So you were in Chicago? For what?"
"To shop," she said as if my question had been ridiculous. "Hello? The Magnificent Mile?"
My fingers flexed around my phone. Seriously?
In my head, I could still see it – shiny storefronts, five-star everything, and rooftop bars packed with people scanning the crowd for faces that mattered.
I used to be one of those people – a scanner, not a scannee, obviously.
Still, I used to walk that mile like I actually belonged – coffee in one hand, confidence in the other. Now, I was serving coffee – and not like a pro, either.
On the phone, Mom said, "Surely you've heard of it."
She was being sarcastic. I knew this, because she and I had done our fair share of shopping together along that same stretch, back when I'd had money to spend and the world at my feet.
Now, my wallet was empty, and my feet were aching.
This time, it wasn't from high heels.
No, my feet were aching from a job that had me standing for hours on end. I couldn't even feel sorry for myself. And why? Because back in Chicago, when I'd been strolling and sipping, I hadn't given a single thought to the baristas who prepared my drinks.
Sure, I had always tipped, but it's not like I'd been walking in their shoes – or working with my hands.
At the thought, I looked down to study my own hand, the one not clutching the phone. It looked perfectly fine. And yet, the pretty pink nail polish taunted me like a relic from the past.
Sure, I'd kept up with the manicures, except now I was doing them myself – mostly to distract from the stupid burns I kept giving my fingers whenever the steam wand gave me trouble.
I was still dwelling on my own incompetence when my mom gave a loud sigh. "Is something wrong with your phone?"
With a little start, I replied, "No. Why?"
"Because you're obviously not hearing me."
My response was automatic. "Yes, I am."
"No, you're not. You haven't replied to a single thing I said. And you still haven't told me why you changed your number."
Obviously, she meant my phone number. I hadn't changed it. But I had yanked the battery from my real phone and left it in a dented locker at the bus stop. And then, I'd purchased a burner with cash, which might've been fine, except the burner lost coverage every time it rained.
I replied, "I did tell you. I misplaced my phone, remember?"
She gave a brittle laugh. "Now you sound like your sister. I swear, she'd lose her head if it wasn't screwed on."
I didn't want to talk about Delaney, not with my mom, who would have nothing nice to say. Ignoring the jab, I quickly said, "But don't worry. I'm sure I'll find it eventually."
"Oh, like you care if I worry."
"But I do," I insisted. It was no lie. These days, I was the only daughter she could call.
It had been months since Delaney had ghosted all of us. And while she and my mom weren't exactly close, Mom had to be at least a little concerned.
Sure, she had never said so. But it would be only natural…right?
On the phone, she gave another sigh. "Well, if you care so much, why aren't you asking what I found on your door?"
I swallowed the urge to snap. "I was planning to. It's just that we got sidetracked, that's all."
"Oh, so it's my fault?"
I knew a trap when I heard it, so I ignored the question as best I could. I swear, sometimes, I envied my sister. Growing up, I had always been Mom's favorite. And Delaney had always been jealous.
I couldn't exactly blame her. And yet, Delaney's way of dealing with it still bothered me, even now.
The stupid nicknames.
The snide remarks.
And the constant eye-rolling whenever I achieved anything that made Mom proud.
Now, with Delaney out of the picture, I was getting a double dose of Mom's moodiness – and a double reminder that I should've been nicer to Delaney, if only to make up for Mom.
I was the big sister, after all. I should've done a better job of shielding her. Or – here was a wild idea – I could've drawn some of that negative attention my way by causing trouble, too, at least once in a while.
But then again, Delaney had always been the rebel.
Me? I'd been "the good girl" – for all it mattered in the end. Mom was still moody. Dad was still uninvolved. And my sister was still MIA.
Meanwhile, here I was, lying to everyone while crashing at the house of a friend who wasn't even my own.
Some family.
Reluctantly, I asked, "So, what was on the door?"
After a dramatic pause, she announced, "An eviction notice, that's what."
I stifled a gasp. Wait, what?