Chapter 18
Lior
“How was it?” Addie asked.
She had worked a half day at her clinic and come home and immediately showered.
By four pm she was dressed in mismatched pajamas – iguanas on top, cats on the bottom.
One of the apparent perks of working with animals was their owners gifting her animal-themed presents for Christmas or as thank yous.
She had an impressive collection of pajamas, socks, and mugs, although right now I was more intrigued by the strange flower arrangement perched on her kitchen island.
“What is it?” I asked, leaning forward to inspect what was definitely flowers but in some weird configuration.
“A mermaid poodle,” she said, as if I should’ve known. “One of its eyes fell off on my walk home though so it’s a little winky.”
“Right.”
“So?” she said, looking at me expectantly. “How was it?”
Her bruises had faded and there were only a few yellow and pale green areas left along her cheekbone, jaw, and collarbone.
The stitches had come out two days before I arrived, and most of the swelling had gone down.
But I could tell by the careful way she moved that she was still in pain, and I made a mental note to keep our activities for the next few days low-key.
In the meantime, I apparently needed to keep her spirits up by spilling the details of my meeting with Graham.
“It’s imperative to my physical healing,” she said whilst looking very solemn.
“It was fun,” I said, and then recounted my afternoon with the author and his sister.
“You like him,” she said.
“He’s nice.”
“No… You like him like him.”
I rolled my eyes and laughed. “Are you going to give me a little note with boxes to check?”
Her blue eyes widened and she opened a drawer and pulled out a notepad and pen and started writing. A moment later a folded piece of paper came skidding across the kitchen island toward me. It read:
Do you:
1) like Graham Forrester?
2) like like Graham Forrester?
3) want to bone Graham Forrester?
I cracked up, marked one of the squares, then refolded the note and tucked it deep inside my bra.
“As if I wouldn’t go get that,” Addie said, turning to pull a premade salad from the fridge.
“You sure you don’t want to come with me for dinner at Lilian and Cal’s house?” I asked. “It’s sure to be delicious.”
“But will it have…” She peered at the label on her salad container. “Crispy onion wisps?”
“I cannot confirm or deny.”
“As much as I’d love to see your mother…” She vehemently shook her head. “I’m going to have to pass. I have a date with my couch and the TV.”
“I didn’t know you were into threesomes.”
“I’ve gotten kinky in my old age.”
I grinned and turned to head to the guest room to change my clothes.
“You gonna date him?” Addie asked.
I turned back around and gave her a sad smile, shaking my head.
“Even if he was interested, which I’m sure he is not, I can’t.
I only have the bandwidth for flings these days and, actually, I don’t even think I have that anymore.
Avoiding being used and hurt again takes a lot of energy. I’m tired. Of the effort, and the men.”
“There is a lot of life left to live, my friend,” Addie said, walking around the kitchen island and giving me a hug. “Don’t let the assholes from your past ruin it for you”
“Funny. I told Ty the same thing once,” I said, referring to my famous gay model pal.
Addie wheezed a laugh, shaking her head as she held her ribcage.
“Dammit,” I said. “Sorry! Stop laughing!”
It took her several minutes and some slow and steady breathing to be able to speak again.
“You deserve nice things and hot sex, Lilu. Preferably all wrapped up in one delicious, dark-haired authorly type.”
“I could probably set you up with him,” I said.
“Nah. You know I like my men on the stupid side, that way they don’t notice when I steal their cool band t-shirts.”
It was true, she did have an impressive collection thanks to her dating history.
“Enjoy your couch and salad date,” I said, kissing the top of her head and then hurrying to my room to change.
Thirty minutes later I was crossing the threshold of my mother and stepdad’s beautiful home tucked in the hills overlooking the Puget Sound.
“Lior, darling,” my mother said in her thick Swedish accent that was somehow unaffected by her decades living in the States.
She kissed me on both cheeks and then held me at arm’s length while I stood, waiting for the scrutiny, the flick of her ice-blue eyes darting over my face, hair, and body, looking for flaws to comment on.
“You look lovely,” she said, but I could hear the disappointment in her voice and I nearly laughed out loud.
Was it the messy ponytail I’d pulled my hair into as I’d walked out the door?
Or perhaps it was my choice of footwear – my old pair of worn-out sneakers.
Or maybe it was the Blondie t-shirt and cut-off white shorts that weren’t to her liking.
(Probably. She hated graphic tees. According to her they were “classless”.)
“Thanks,” I said. “You too.”
She actually did though. It was annoying and inspirational at the same time.
Her white-blonde hair was tucked into a bun low on her nape, makeup minimal and on point, beige linen dress classic and somehow with nary a wrinkle in it.
I didn’t know how she always managed to look so effortlessly chic.
Even when dressed for a black-tie event she somehow looked natural and at ease in a gown that cost as much as my rental car.
“Where’s Cal?” I asked, gazing around the spotless living room that looked out over the water.
“He was tinkering in the garage,” she said, heading toward the kitchen. Liliana Flynn didn’t roll her eyes, but one could hear the roll in her tone of voice. “He’ll be up shortly. Tea?”
We drank tea and then dinner was served.
A salad made from vegetables in the garden my stepfather lovingly tended to, grilled chicken, and freshly baked bread (for me and Cal).
For dessert we had a small scoop of lemon sorbet garnished with a mint leaf and a single raspberry, served in crystal parfait glasses with small silver spoons.
Life with my mother had always been like this.
Perfect. Clean. Quiet. And masking a dozen or more issues one didn’t talk about because to do so was unsavory.
I’d always hated it. It wasn’t me. It was a falsehood just asking to be stripped away to reveal the messy underbelly.
How many times as a kid had I fought back?
How many times had my pushing and arguing failed?
Lillian Flynn didn’t and wouldn’t react.
Her life was a facade and she was perfectly happy living with her mask firmly in place.
Which had made her the perfect model. She lived the notion of being someone she wasn’t…
until that’s exactly who she was. And while I had tried it myself, it turns out it wasn’t for me.
And that realization was what had led me to where I was now: wanting out.
While we ate, I could feel my mother’s eyes on me. Her restraint was impressive, but I could feel the pull of her desire to comment. Cal must’ve said something before my arrival to stop her. Perhaps he mentioned I might visit more if she weren’t so critical.
I hadn’t known if they’d been aware I’d been in town twice recently.
Not until she called the day before I was heading back to Seattle to see Addie and asked when I’d be returning.
I figured she’d either lowered her usual standards and checked out my Instagram page, or someone in her circle had casually mentioned seeing my pictures.
Lying was futile. So I’d promised to stop by.
“What’s next on the docket?” she asked me as our dishes were cleared and a pitcher of white wine sangria was brought out.
I raised an eyebrow at Cal and he suppressed a grin, turning his head so as not to let his wife see him trying not to laugh.
A simple glass of wine was her standard.
Anything more fun was a telltale sign she was trying to keep from being her usual too-uptight self.
Unfortunately, her use of the word ‘docket’ indicated the alcohol had arrived a moment too late.
“A Vogue shoot,” I said.
“For?” The tension in her voice could’ve been cut with one of her fancy rose gold-handled steak knives. I wanted to ask, does it matter? It was Vogue. But to her it did. She was modeling royalty. And she wanted her only child, who was part of her legacy, to be dressed only in the best.
“Daniela Rossi,” I said, taking a large sip of my sangria. “You probably haven’t heard of her. She’s new to the—”
“Of course I’ve heard of her.” She sniffed delicately as if I’d offended her knowledge. “I actually quite like her work. Delicate, but with an edge.”
I almost laughed out loud. I could feel what she wasn’t saying. She was imagining herself as a good fit for Daniela’s clothes. I would not be the one to inform her that, for once, I was the better fit, because I understood and exuded delicacy, and she was always all edges.
“Cover?” she asked.
I quietly sighed. “Yes, and a ten-page spread.”
At that she looked up, her icy blue gaze meeting my eyes straight on. Was that… was she impressed?
“Ten pages?” she asked. “Well, she’s certainly proved something with Anna.”
Of course. She wasn’t impressed with me landing such a coveted number of Vogue pages… she was impressed with Daniela. As she should be, but still.
“Congratulations,” Cal said, leaning forward and patting my hand.
“Thanks,” I said. I could always count on him to give me credit. My mother waved a hand though, dismissing my accomplishment.
“Of course she got it. Look who her mother is.”
I downed my drink and pushed back from the table.
“Hate to cut this short.” I didn’t. “But I have to get back.”
“How is Addie?” my mother asked. “Did she get the flowers we sent? I don’t recall seeing a thank you card.”