27. “Bad” - James Bay
“Bad” - James Bay
Walker
Now that I’ve scrubbed that stupid stickiness off of me, and texted Maeve to let her know that, yes, her plot worked, I have nothing to do.
Technically this isn’t true, since I could spend some time compiling the few research notes I’ve taken, email an update to Dr. Riordan, or read one of the thousands of books filling the manor’s library.
The problem isn’t that I have nothing to do. The problem is that there’s only one thing I want to do, the same thing I should avoid at all costs.
I find my mind wandering to Heath as I do menial tasks around the house. Putting the trash bag into the outdoor receptacle, applying a fresh face of makeup after my shower, throwing a load of laundry into the washer, doing the few dishes that have accumulated in the sink.
Who are his plans with, and what do those plans entail? Maybe he has a standing date with Seeley to hook up every time they can’t surf. I can’t blame him. Our last real conversation was me yelling at him for cheating on me.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and I pull my dishwashing gloves off so fast I tear a hole in one finger.
It turns out to be unnecessary, because it’s just my mum. Again. I’ve been ignoring her texts because I’m a terrible daughter. But she’s been spiraling since my dad left her— again —and I don’t want to deal with that.
I’m about to lock my phone without responding to her, but my mind keeps circling back to Heath, even though he’s a destructive idea. The guy cheated on me, for god’s sake.
Maybe soaking up a little of my mum’s heartbreak will be good for me, make me see reason. After all, if I’m not careful, I’ll end up just like her.
* * *
The rain leaves my hair a frizzled mess by the time I arrive, but there’s something comforting about being back in my old home while the rain streaks the windows. My mum pulls me into a Chanel-scented hug. At least she’s back to her signature perfume.
“You could have at least texted me back,” she says.
“I’m sorry, Mum. I’ve been busy.”
We both know it’s a lie, but she has the grace not to point it out.
“Come on. I’ll warm up the brie.” She heads toward the kitchen.
I roll my eyes and follow her. “You know, Mum, you could consider turning to something besides food when you’re sad.”
She halts in her tracks and turns to look at me over her shoulder. “Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Therapy, exercise, getting out of the house. Healthy options.”
She tuts and keeps walking. “I go out. Be glad I haven’t become an alcoholic. Besides, therapy isn’t fun. Eating is.” She holds up a wheel of cheese and shakes it in the air, a devious smile on her face .
I sigh and shake my head. If she’s refusing to see reason after fourteen years, I may as well quit trying. At least she’s not depressed anymore. Maybe she’s had time to process it, or maybe she’s finally learning to cope like a mature adult.
She pops the brie into the oven and fishes the pepper-and-rosemary water biscuits from the cupboard. I fill a glass of water from the spooky, AI-run fridge and try not to think about how many things the government is able to discover about my mum through the bloody thing.
Once the cheese is warm, we grab everything and take it to the living room, which faces the front of the house.
It’s never been my mum’s go-to for entertaining, but after every breakup, this is where we end up, thanks to the huge gas fireplace spanning the entire south wall.
A set of arched windows overlook the front driveway, where the rain is still pelting the concrete.
Several sofas line the edges of the space, bedecked with pillows.
We grab our favorite throw blankets and settle the tray between us on the sofa. I have to admit, there’s something comforting about following our ritual, even if I’m irritated that Mum hasn’t learned a better way to cope after all these years.
“So how are you doing?” I hope she can’t read how uninterested I am in her answer. Asking usually opens a can of worms that takes thirty minutes to clean up.
“I’m good.” She dunks a biscuit into the gooey cheese. “Even better now that you’re here.”
“You’re not still sad?”
“I am. I miss him a lot. But you don’t want to hear about all of that.”
My chest deflates. “Mum, I want you to be okay.”
“I’m getting there.” She smiles and brushes her hair from her eyes. “Tell me about you.”
I take a bite of my own cheesy biscuit before answering. The familiar combination brings up so many memories. Tears, tissues, binging TV shows. “My research is going well, although not as quickly as I had hoped.”
“You found a way to get into the Archives, then?” she says. I’m surprised she remembered.
“Uh, yeah. A friend had a card.”
“Who? Maeve?”
Crap. The point was to forget Heath, not talk about him. “No, um . . .” I start. “Heath, actually.”
Mum pauses with a biscuit over the cheese and stares at me. “Heath?”
“He was the only one with a card.” I shrug, hoping she reads it as No big deal.
“And?”
“And what?” I brush crumbs from the corners of my mouth.
Her dark eyes take in everything I’m not saying. “How is that going?”
“It’s fine. Have you read any good books recently?”
“Walker.”
I toss the new biscuit I picked up back onto the tray. My appetite has vanished. “What? What do you want me to say? You want me to tell you that I slept with him and that I’m starting to have feelings for him again? You want me to say that I’m miserable unless I’m with him?”
“If it’s the truth.”
I turn to look out the window. Is it? I don’t even know. Besides the sex part, of course.
She reaches across the sofa to touch my hand. “Carino, you can tell me anything, you know. I’m your mother.”
I give her a small smile. “Thanks, Mum.”
“Does he know why you left?”
I tug my hand away and tuck my hair behind my ear. It’s still damp from my shower earlier, which makes me think about the previous one with Heath. My face heats. “He does now,” I mutter.
When I texted my mother from the plane to let her know I wasn’t coming home, she freaked out. I called her after I landed to reassure her. She wouldn’t let it go until I explained why I went back.
“Let me guess,” she says. “You’re struggling with how to feel about him after all this time.”
I bite my lower lip. “I’m still angry, but there are all these other feelings I can’t name.”
She nods slowly and tucks her feet under her. “You never processed these things before. Being back here opens everything up again.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You still love him, don’t you?”
The words cause an ache in my chest that feels like a bruise when you press on it. Sharp, visceral, raw. “I don’t know.” It comes out high-pitched and childish. “How can you love someone after they hurt you that badly?”
“Oh, ninita. The human heart is a funny thing. You’d be surprised at the things it’s capable of.”
“But I don’t want to end up—” I stop.
“Like me?” she supplies.
I drop my gaze to my hands, which have been fiddling with the tassels on my cashmere blanket.
“Carino, listen to me. You are not me. And not every man is your father.”
“He’s already cheated on me once, Mum. That proves he’s a cheater, just like Dad.”
“One mistake shouldn’t define a person.”
“I would be a fool to think he’ll change.”
Her chin lifts, and she sets the tray onto the coffee table. She begins tidying the sofa by folding the throw blankets and arranging pillows. “I see. ”
“Mum,” I say when my words echo back to me. “I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t think you’re a fool.”
She glances at me over her shoulder. There’s a spark of anger in her eyes. “Yes, you do.”
“I—”
She’s right. I’ve always considered her a fool, ever since my father left her the first time and she fell apart.
When she took him back six months later, I was happy.
I thought our family would finally be okay.
But when the entire cycle repeated itself not long after, I realized she was an even bigger fool than I thought.
“You think I’m foolish for believing your father can change.” She folds a blanket in half and drapes it over her arm. “And I probably am. But I’d rather be a fool for taking a chance on a man than be a fool for never giving him one in the first place.”
“I did give Heath a chance. He used it to cheat on me.”
She sits beside me on the sofa. “Heath is a good man, Walker.”
I bark out a sharp laugh. “That’s what you said about Dad, too.”
“Your father is a womanizing manipulator. I knew that the first time I met him.”
I jerk my head to the side. “Then why do you keep taking him back? Why did you even date him in the first place?”
“For the same reason any woman loves a man like that. We believe we can inspire them to change.”
“You’re not really selling your case here.”
“My point is that Heath isn’t like that, love.” She rubs her hand across my knee. “He’s one of the good ones.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I saw the two of you together. There was no mistaking how he felt about you.”
My mother, ever the optimist. “And yet he cheated on me.”
“No one’s perfect, carino.”
“I’m not asking for perfection.” I shake my head, and my hair falls back into my face. I push it away again. “Just loyalty.”
“Some people are capable of change. Others aren’t.”
“What makes the difference?”
She ponders this for a moment, staring at the rain still running down the tall windows. “I don’t know. Something fundamental about them, maybe.”
“But how do you make someone change?”
She chuckles, a husky laugh that has men throwing themselves at her feet, all of them dirtbags. “You don’t. You can’t.”
I flop back onto the sofa cushions. “Great. Nice sentiment.”
She pats my leg. “You can’t force someone to change, but you can inspire them.”
“And how do you do that?”
“You believe in them. Those who are willing to change, will. Those who aren’t, won’t.”