Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
D aughtry
“This place is amazing.” Louise walks around the Fosters’ guest cottage, admiring the furnishings. She has on a green, white, and black geometric print wrap dress and her black stilettos clack on the hardwood floors. “Daughtry, whatever guardian angel you have, can you share?”
“I’m so pleased you like it.” Zoey Foster wrings a dish towel printed with rainbow-colored badgers between her freckled palms. She hasn’t changed a bit. I circle the apartment, pretending to inspect it, but really I look at her.
If I could have chosen my ideal mom, it would have been Zoey Foster. Her ashy brown hair is a riot of curls around her head, and she still dresses like she’s on her way to a yoga retreat. I find it all shockingly touching, so I keep my distance from her and Louise.
I trail a hand along the kitchen counter. Spotless. Who cleaned it? Declan? Zoey? It sure as hell wasn’t Ciaran .
“We’ve done a lot of work to get it ready,” Zoey says. “Daughtry, I’m honored you are our first guest.”
“The honor is all mine, Zoey.” Is it super awkward talking to my ex-boyfriend’s mom? Less so than I’d expected. So far, it’s also less of a minefield than talking with his gorgeous brother. “You’ve outdone yourself. You should be charging three times what you are.”
The cottage is perfect. Everything is in shades of cream and pale green, but it’s not a sickly, avocado color. More of a ripe Bartlett pear. There are two bedrooms, along with a kitchen and living area, in an open concept floor plan. On the hardwood, there are thick, faux fur rugs that make me want to lounge on them. Electric tea lights glow in votives along the mantle of the wood burning fireplace.
It’s eleven thousand times nicer than my apartment back in the city. Or any placed I’ve lived my entire life.
“There’s a TV.” Zoey picks up one of the three remotes on the glass coffee table and presses a button. The landscape of Lake Michigan at sunrise descends into the wall, revealing a flatscreen. “Ciaran insisted on the size, and Declan found out how to mask it.”
“That’s amazing,” I say. “Are you sure it’s alright that I stay here?”
“Of course!” Zoey opens her arms wide. For a moment, I hesitate, then I step into them, feeling like twelve seconds have passed and not twelve years. She still smells like vanilla and hot morning coffee. Patting me on the back, she pulls me close to her. “It’s just a shame Charlie is at that hotelier’s conference in Portland. I know he’ll be devastated that he didn’t get to see you. He’ll want to gush over your success.”
“Tell him I miss him.” I squeeze her once more before she lets me go. “He was always really nice to me.” Charlie Foster, the patriarch of the family, used to make sure I did my homework at the end of the day, and had gotten me a job at a music shop in town.
What has my mom done for me? Exactly.
“Will do.” Zoey turns her bright gaze toward Louise. “And Ms. Fields, is there anything we can do for you? A friend of Daughtry’s is a friend of ours.”
“Thank you, but I’m fine over at Serenity Bay. It’s a good thing I booked early, the place is packed. Looking around here, you’ll have the same problem. This cottage is gorgeous.” Louise gestures with one smooth brown hand.
“Take this, at least.” Zoey hands Louise a bottle of wine wrapped with a red bow. “We’re proud of our wines here.”
“Thank you.” Louise glances down at the bottle and a shallow furrow forms between her brows. “Dumpster Fire Red Blend? Sounds…delicious.”
“I know, it’s a horrible name. My son names all the wines.” Zoey grimaces. “He was going through a rough time. But give it a try. It’s delightful. Very fruit forward, low tannins.”
“I’ll save it for a special occasion.” Louise slips the bottle into her voluminous leather tote bag. “You all right, Daughtry? Need anything?”
“Nope. I’m all set.” I lift my guitar case to prove it. “I’ll be ready at nine on the dot tomorrow for the interview.”
“Excellent.” Louise flashes me a thumbs up before slinging her tote bag over her shoulder. “The car will be out front.”
“We can drive her,” Zoey says quickly. “If that would help at all. I have two very capable sons.”
Don’t I know that already?
“Up to Daughtry. Text me what you want. I’m off to try some of the local delicacies.” Louise waves goodbye and leaves the cottage.
Like life is that easy. A simple text and all my desires would be delivered. Out here, I can’t even get pizza delivery five days of the week.
Zoey’s pocket chirps, and she removes her phone. “I’ve got to go. I forgot about the floral delivery for the tasting room. Here. Let me send you my number.” Two seconds later and my own phone buzzes in E flat. “You need anything at all, don’t hesitate. When you’re here, you’re family.” She pauses. “I’ll work on that tagline. So happy to have you here, hon.” With a quick squeeze, Zoey leaves, too.
I pause for a good ten seconds. The cottage is so quiet all of a sudden. I sink down onto the plush cream-colored couch.
What the hell do I do now?
This is all too nice, too luxurious. Suffocating, almost. It’s too easy to fall back into the old habits of letting the Fosters take care of me. They aren’t my family. They don’t owe me anything, and yet I keep racking up debts to them.
Like the universe is listening, my phone rings. “One Way or Another,” by Blondie. My stomach sinks. I’ve only labeled one person with that song.
It’s better to answer. If I don’t, she will keep calling or emailing until it’s an endless ring of virtual toxicity. I steel my shoulders and swipe the bar to answer. “Hi, Mom.”
“Daughtry babe! How are you?” Her voice sounds tinny, and there are bells jingling in the background. She is either at a casino or a children’s indoor playground. Neither surprises me.
“Fine.” I pick up one of the remote controls and push a button on it for fun. Smooth jazz plays from invisible speakers. I tap another button and the music shifts to eighties hair metal. That seems an apt accompaniment to this talk with my mom. Both things drive ice picks into my eyeballs.
“I’m in Atlantic City, and it’s amazing. Roger—you remember Roger—took me for the weekend. How’s LA? ”
I do not remember Roger. Or Steve. Or Carson. Or any of the other nameless men she takes up with on a whim. “I imagine it’s sunny.”
“Oh right!” Hah. Like I believe that tone. That’s the same tone she used when she called the night before my first album released, and she just “happened to forget.” She asked for money then, too. “You’re on tour. How’s it going? Where are you?”
I debate lying, but there’s no point. Wherever I am, it isn’t near her, and that works for me. “Wisconsin.”
“Wisconsin?” Her voice rises an octave. It’s practically a screech. “Ugh. I never understood why you liked Wisconsin. So fucking cold. And the summers? Is it humid right now? I’ll bet it’s so humid the mosquitos stand in a big cloud to eat you alive. Atlantic City is gorgeous. The beach is right here.”
She doesn’t require a response. I leave her on speakerphone and open up my guitar case. I always set a mental ten minute timer on calls with my mom. Otherwise, I end up in bed with a migraine, or a random hookup whose name I never ask.
We all have our vices.
“Anyway, you know it’s been hard holding down a job. People are so ageist out here on the East Coast.” This means she got fired from Target. Or Wawa. I lose track of which minimum wage job she holds at which time. She goes through them faster than she goes through men. It has nothing to do with ageism, either. Appropriately, most employers frown on employees who either show up hungover or completely skip shifts. “Roger’s having it rough, too. Any chance you can float us until something new comes my way?”
At least she got to the point more quickly than usual. “I already send you something every month, Mom.” Louise told me very clearly that I am not to indulge my mom’s needy behavior. I’m supposed to have boundaries, stick to them, eat properly, and get enough sleep. I do...none of those things. “I don’t have anything left over. I couldn’t find a sublet while I’m on the road, so I’m paying rent in the sixth most expensive city in the world.” Hopefully, once the tour starts, and I have some buzz behind my name, I’ll have more money. That’s the goal. In the meantime, though, I’m nickel and diming my life yet again.
There’s something about not having money that leads me to make reckless decisions. Such as dying my hair with markers. Or getting a piercing from a friend who bought their equipment online from a discount store. Or staying with my ex-boyfriend's family in his too-nice-for-me guest cottage.
Mom scoffs. “Like it’s more expensive than New York.” Technically, she lives in New Jersey, unless she moved again and forgot to tell me. The first time that happened I was twelve and didn’t find out until she neglected to pick me up after school. The parents of my only friend at the time, Maxine, had taken pity on me and let me stay at their house while the cops found my mom. Turns out she had run off for the weekend and married number four—no, number five— of my seven stepdads and was two states away in Kentucky.
I hated the seventh grade.
“Daughtry, please. We’re blood, baby. You can’t let blood down.”
There’s no use listing the ways she lets me down. “If I come into more money, I’ll let you know. I have to go and practice, Mom. My set is tomorrow, and I have an interview to prepare for.”
“An interview?” I can almost hear her ears perk up. “Say something nice about me. I love reading about how I helped my baby girl rise to stardom.”
Ha. Hahahahahahahaha .
I inhale deeply and speak through gritted teeth. “Right. Sure. Bye, Mom.”
“Bye, baby.”
She hangs up before we reach the five minute mark. Good.
It’s impossible to focus on anything right now. Music is a double-edged sword. It’s something I love and want to do, but then it also has the potential to bring Mom back into my orbit. My knee jiggles and even my hair can’t seem to settle. I can’t get comfortable no matter what I do.
I open the dating app on my phone—fine, it’s a hook up app—and it automatically adjusts to my location. Only two potential candidates of men looking for women. One is named Rove, a scruffy, older man I vaguely recognize, and the other is Ciaran.
Why isn’t Declan on this app?
If I crane my head, I can see the driveway. Declan’s car isn’t back yet. What if he comes to the door, his hair hanging all sexy-tousled over his face? His blue eyes would be dark again, nearly the color of a bruise. What does he taste like? What would it feel like, to have his hands on me, all over me, touching all the places I need filled, even if it’s only for a few moments?
My fingers itch with want.
I set down my guitar and jump up and down to shake the jitters from my body, and my phone buzzes with an incoming text from my mom.
Ugh. My mom doesn’t belong in this lovely little guest cottage. It doesn’t belong on the Fosters’ land. I worked so hard to keep the two of them separate, to keep her from tainting this.
I never should have returned to St. Olaf.