Chapter 5 Sloane
Sloane
Now
I wake for the second time on Sunday morning to the sound of my phone ringing, and my mother’s beautiful face flashes across the screen until I finally pick it up off of the nightstand and accept the call.
“Hello, Mother.”
I stifle the yawn threatening to obscure my greeting. If she catches it, she’ll launch into a long-winded lecture about me still being in bed at this time of day.
“Sloane.” The disapproving way she says my name lets me know I’ve failed. “Please tell me you’re not still in bed. It’s almost noon, for goodness’ sake.”
It’s only a little after ten, but my mother is not to be argued with. Lauren Carson is perfection personified, which means she is well versed in identifying and pointing out everyone else’s shortcomings, especially mine.
“I’m not feeling well.” I sit up, resting my back against my headboard.
“Wallowing in bed won’t make you feel any better, will it?”
There it is again. Disapproval, where there should be maternal concern or, at the very least, the kind of surface-level care you would give a stranger, but caring for another person has never been my mother’s thing.
Whenever I would get sick as a kid, she’d just pawn me off on one of the three nannies she kept on staff to take care of me.
And when I would cry for her, she’d pat my head and tell me she just wasn’t suited for this part of motherhood.
I spent half of my life waiting to find out which part of the endeavor that was parenting she was suited for and gave up when I was sixteen and realized the only plausible answer was none of it.
Unless criticizing your only child until they second-guess every decision they’ve ever made counts, and if that’s the case, the woman belongs in someone’s hall of fame.
“No, it won’t,” I sigh. “I was just about to get up and put on some clothes.”
It’s a lie, but that’s what I do with my mother: lie to appease her and apologize when the lies aren’t good enough, and her ego has to be assuaged some other way.
“Perfect. Then you’ll come over for brunch. Your father wants to see you.”
I close my eyes and try not to focus on the way she specified my father wants to see me.
Not your father and I. Not your loving parents.
Not we. Just your father. It’s a testament to the unnatural dynamic between the three of us.
The hands-off, narcissistic mother. The doting father who tried to fill in the gaps.
And the broken only child who let her childhood trauma ruin the best thing in her life.
“Mom, I can’t come over today. I’m having dinner with Annette and Mallory, and I’m heading over in a few to help them cook.”
Like I have every Sunday for as long as I can remember. I don’t bother to point it out though, because she already knows. She just doesn’t care.
She scoffs. Scoffs. Like attending a regularly scheduled dinner with people I care for is a foreign concept to her. It probably is, since the only regular appointments she has on her books are facials, massages, and lunch with the minions she calls her friends.
“Surely you can afford to miss one dinner, Sloane. It’s not like the woman is cooking anything you haven’t eaten already.”
“And it’s not like I can’t see you and Dad another day!”
She gasps. “There’s no need to speak to me that way, Sloane Elise. Is it such a crime for your father to want to see you?”
“Mom.” I’m clinging desperately to my last shred of patience. “I’m sorry for raising my voice, but I can’t come over today. Maybe later this week?”
The apology feels all wrong in my mouth, the words twisting their way out as if it’s a fight for my tongue to form them. It is. I’m always the one apologizing even when I’ve done nothing wrong.
“Fine,” she snaps, sounding distracted and annoyed.
In my mind’s eye, I can picture her: sitting at her vanity, touching up her makeup, and spritzing herself with perfume she doesn’t even like the smell of but wears because one small bottle costs more than most people’s rent.
Her long black and gray curls framing her thin face, calling attention to her hazel eyes, perfectly arched brows, and high cheekbones.
No one has ever laid eyes on my mom and called her anything less than exquisite. Strangers say her beauty is only matched by the kindness and warmth she exudes. They rave about her welcoming smiles, the long embraces, and encouraging words she freely gives to everyone she meets.
I’ve never met that woman though. Never had her eyes shine with anything but cold criticism when she looks at me.
A never-ending catalog of my faults and shortcomings reflected in her irises.
Constant suggestions, about how I can be something more than a disappointment who shares her face but none of her grace and perfection, fall from her lips.
“Thank you for being so understanding, Mom.” I rub at my temple, praying the headache that’s been threatening to bloom at the front of my skull doesn’t take flight. “Did you need anything else?”
“No. Please text your father and let him know you won’t be able to make it today.”
I bite back a bitter laugh. Of course, she can’t be bothered to pass along the message.
“Okay. I’ll let him know as soon as I hang up with you.”
“Great.” She huffs. “And Sloane?”
“Yes, Mother?”
“Please make sure to let us know which day you decide to grace us with your presence. I have several engagements scheduled this week, and I won’t be happy if I have to miss them just to accommodate your lack of planning.”
My mouth drops open. Did she just say that to me after calling me with some last-minute plans about brunch? “Got it. Talk to you later, Mom.”
The faint clinking of glass lets me know my earlier thought about her sitting at her vanity was correct. It was a common sound in my childhood. One that punctuated the rare moments I spent with my mother in her bedroom before she promptly dismissed me.
“Goodbye, Sloane.”
When she hangs up, I tap out a quick message to my dad, apologizing for breaking our nonexistent brunch plans and promising to call him tomorrow to make dinner plans this week. His response is immediate.
Dad: No worries, bean! I’d be happy to see you whenever you have time. Dinner later this week sounds amazing. Maybe I’ll put some steaks on the grill? :)
The smile his message puts on my face almost makes up for the fact he gave me Cruella de Vil for a mother.
Sloane: That sounds perfect, Daddy! I’ll come over on Friday.
With my promise kept, I decide to take my mother’s advice and get out of bed. Thirty minutes later, I’m freshly showered and dressed, sitting on the couch and sliding on a pair of shoes when my doorbell rings.
Surprised, I pad over to the door and open it to find a smiling Mal on the other side, holding two cups of iced coffee in her hands. I move to the side to make space for her to pass through the doorway, and she shoves one of the cold plastic cups in my hand.
“Good morning, sunshine!”
“Morning.” I take a sip of my iced caramel macchiato. “What are you doing here? I thought we were meeting at Mama’s.”
“We were, but I wanted to check on you first. You know…” She gives me a significant look. “After last night.”
I walk over and pull her into a short hug, leaning back to look into amber eyes that are a little too similar to the ones I miss more than anything in the world.
“I’m fine, Mal. I promise.”
It’s not a lie. As scary as last night was, I know it could have gone completely different.
The scenario Dominic rescued me from has played out in huge, life-altering ways for far too many women in the world.
My heart beats a little harder at that knowledge, and gratitude I expected to have dissipated a bit by now swells in my chest for him again, turning my thoughts to the man who appeared in my dreams all night.
His lips. His eyes. His hands on my skin.
“Good!” Mal chirps brightly, pulling my wayward mind back to her. “In that case, let’s go. Mama has already sent me a list of things she needs from the store.”
I grab my purse, keys, and phone and follow Mal out of the door. “Didn’t you just take her to the store yesterday?”
Mal throws her hands up in exasperation as she unlocks her car.
I laugh, knowing from the one small gesture that Annette has been riding her daughter’s nerves since early this morning.
Once upon a time, those calls would’ve been coming to Eric’s phone.
Waking us up at the crack of dawn with reminders to stop by the store and pick up milk, eggs, flour, or another ingredient she needed to make dinner that day.
Now, those calls go straight to Mal, and Mama doesn’t care if her daughter is asleep, hungover, or snoring in the arms of a naked stranger: she still calls.
Mal backs out my driveway. “How was the ride home last night?”
“You tell me. I slept through the whole thing.”
She purses her lips. “I didn’t want to leave you, especially when you were asleep, but Nic insisted on dropping me off at my place first. Did you freak out on him when you woke up?”
Unbidden, thoughts of Dominic’s gentle touch and warm breath caressing my skin as he nudged me awake pop into my mind.
Freaking out on him was the last thing on my mind, and judging by the contents of my dream last night…
I shake my head, trying to set the thought free.
Thinking about my inappropriate dreams next to Mal feels wrong.
“Nope. You should be proud of me. I was nice to him.”
“Nice?” Mal hums her approval. “I wasn’t aware you knew how to be anything other than bitchy where Nic is concerned.”
“Let’s not make him sound like a victim, Mallory. Even though you and Mama love to make him out to be some sort of angel, he deserves every shot I take at him.”
She scrunches her nose at me. “No one has ever called him an angel. Honestly, both of you get on my nerves with the constant bickering. It was nice to see the two of you getting along even if some drunk in the club was the reason.”