16. Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
I wake up with a stiff neck and a headache while everyone else—including Rory, conveniently on the couch—is still asleep. Cade got to rest after a while, and even though I had every intention of going home, I accidentally fell asleep on his bedroom floor hours after he was asleep. That’s what happens when I spend the night staring at his ceiling. I never imagined the events of last night being my introduction to Cade Deans’ bedroom. I was hoping for a lot more fun and a lot less crippling doubt.
I quietly pad my way to the kitchen. I can’t leave yet—Rory’s my ride—and there’s nothing I can busy myself with unless I want to hang out in Cade’s room and watch him sleep. I decide to make a pot of coffee. As the pot sputters, and I realize with disdain that there’s no clean mugs, Rory wakes up.
“Rory, hey.” I wave at her as she sits up and rubs her eyes free of exhaustion. “I’m making coffee.”
“Why the hell are you here?”
“It’s a long story,” I reply, breezy. “The short version is that Cade drunkenly crashed my date.”
Rory’s eyes widen. “You’re serious.”
“I am.”
“Holy shit. What’d he do?”
I explain as I scour EJ’s kitchen for something to put coffee in, to no avail.
“I think it’s saying something that he wanted to tell you,” Rory says about the shop. “If he was just fighting a war with his dick to avoid sleeping with you, he wouldn’t care about you being part of his accomplishments.”
I’ve considered that idea. Over and over and over. And I’ve convinced myself there’s no way. Girls like me don’t have that kind of power with guys like Cade.
“I think I have no choice but to do dishes,” I realize. “If we want coffee mugs.”
“Forget about the coffee,” Rory says. “You don’t want to touch the kitchen sink.”
I grimace. “Really?”
She nods once. “I swear. Come on, I’ll buy you one at Beach Brew on the way to your place.”
I don’t bother discarding the pot of coffee I made. Cade will drink it—and reach into the sink to clean a mug—willingly.
“I decided to make a few changes,” my mother says over dinner.
I tear my eyes away from my phone. Cade hasn’t tried to talk all day, and it’s starting to make me nervous. I doubt he remembers everything he said, but I know that he feels like an ass right now. “Oh?”
“I’m not getting any younger, Gigi.” Oh, no. There’s a multitude of possibilities for what comes next: boob job, a new butt, maybe some fake lips. Hopefully not all three. “And seeing you be so youthful during your time here has sparked something in me.”
It’s got to be a boob job. She’s jealous of my boobs. Belinda Elliott: the only woman in the world jealous over her daughter having a better figure than her.
“I think I want to put myself out there, try dating.”
“Really?”
She nods, taking a sip from her wineglass. “Your father moved on so easily. I think it’s about time I get my turn. Wouldn’t you agree?”
He moved on because you gave him no choice but to. And thank God he did.
“You’d benefit from socializing,” I tell her. The only environments I’ve seen my mother in during my time here is the diner or at home, glass of white wine in hand. I’d imagine she’d like having a group of friends to talk about herself with so they can fawn over her.
Then again, she likely thinks the women in this town are beneath her, that she deserves people of a better caliber as friends.
“I have plenty of friends as it is,” she tells me. “But maybe you’re right. I should put myself out there.”
“You should.”
“I’ve dated,” she tells me. “But nothing ever works out. I’m just too busy. I’m a lot of woman to handle.”
You’re a lot of something.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “You’re a catch. Any man is lucky to have you.”
She smiles with the usual levity that exists after she gets a compliment, as I knew she would.
“You’re such a sweet girl, sugar.” Her smile could illuminate the entire city.
It makes me nauseous.
A few days later, Belinda has a date. The house smells like Patchouli. She’s walking around humming Michael Buble to herself as she gets ready, and she’s acting… happy. Genuinely, bounce-in-her-step, light-as-a-feather happy.
It’s weird.
“Gigi,” she sing-songs from the kitchen. “Are you sure you’ll be okay here all by yourself?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m here alone while you’re at the diner. Constantly.”
I hear her sigh. “But this time I’m occupied with someone else. I just don’t want you to miss me too much.”
“Trust me,” I say. “I’m fine.”
She wanders into the living room, sitting next to me on the couch, full wineglass in hand. When I raise my eyebrows, Belinda says, “I need a drink to calm my nerves.”
“How are you feeling about this guy?” I ask. If she’s going to share her dating life with me, I might as well humor her enough to inquire.
“I really enjoy his company,” she says as she situates on her cushion, legs pulled up under her. “He’s funny. He listens. It’s been nice.”
“I’m glad,” I say, and I really mean it.
I want her to be happy. As hard as she is to understand, to get along with, to relate with, I’d love to see a world where my mother has a life that fills her with joy—so she’ll leave my life alone.
She sips her wine. “I have enjoyed having you here,” she says. “I haven’t said it, but having you in my day-to-day has been… welcome.”
“Thank you for allowing a long visit,” I say. “I know you’re busy.”
She nods. “You’re my daughter, Gigi.”
“You say that a lot,” I tell her.
“Being your mom is the title I’m most proud of.”
From anyone else, this would tug on my heartstrings, maybe spring a few tears. Not Belinda.
I’m feeling frustrated tonight. At Belinda. At Cade. At the universe. I say, “You aren’t my mom. I mean, I don’t consider you my mom. You keep… You keep calling yourself my mom, my mother. But you’re not.”
She halts. “Don’t be ridiculous, Gigi.”
Just as quickly as it bubbles up, my nerve is shot. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It’s just… frustrating. Back at home, Greta is mom. It gets confusing.”
“Don’t let that bother you,” Belinda says, her shoulders dropping. She lets out a breath she must have been holding hostage, waiting for me to say whatever it was I needed to. “I’m your mom, sugar. And I always will be.” Satisfied with her pep talk, she stands, rubs her free hand on her long black jumpsuit. “I should get going. I’m meeting Damon soon.”
“Damon,” I repeat. “That’s his name?”
Belinda nods. “He’s extremely handsome. He makes me feel so beautiful. It’s wonderful. ”
Whatever this man must be slipping her on their dates is working, because she’s acting like a new woman.
I can’t shake how I’m feeling about her. Even as she leaves, giving me a soft pink-lipstick kiss on the forehead, I feel upset. I want her to be happy, to have things that bring her joy. But her quips at my expense, her inability to see anyone’s perspective but her own… It’s exhausting.
I call my mom, because she will know exactly what to say. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say weakly. I can hear the breaking in my voice, feel the pressure of my throat closing. “I’m okay.”
“What happened?”
“Belinda did,” I whimper.
“Gigi.” A warning tone. My mom will be here in a matter of hours if it means saving me.
“I need to vent,” I say. “I’m venting.”
I tell Mom about all of this. Belinda roping me into working for her but not paying me, me being too scared to confront her.
Then the doorbell rings.
“Do you mind if we pick this up later?” I ask Mom. “Someone’s here.”
“Ms. Social Butterfly, spreading her wings,” Mom replies lovingly as we hang up.
I walk with trepidation to the front window, looking around to see if there’s anything I can throw or bludgeon someone with, should I need it.
I pull the curtain back gingerly, and on the front porch, holding two coffees from Beach Brew, is Cade. When I pull the front door open, he silently hands the cup over.
“What is this?”
“Our drink of choice,” he tells me. “It’s an ‘I’m sorry’ coffee.”
“‘I’m sorry’ coffee?”
He shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know, Gigi. I’m not good at this.”
“Good at…?” My heart stutters.
“Apologizing,” he sighs. “I don’t know what I said to you. I vaguely recall stumbling my way to the boardwalk. And I wake up the next morning to a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen. But then you don’t text me.”
“Come in,” I say, stepping aside. “Do we talk?”
“I don’t know,” Cade mutters. “I don’t know what comes after the ‘I’m sorry’ part.”
I roll my eyes. “Come in. It’s just me. Belinda has a date.”
As Cade settles into the couch, I reach for my phone.
“My mom,” I supply when he looks at me expectantly. “I had a weird moment with Belinda before her date. I needed to talk to somebody.”
“You could have called me,” Cade says gently.
My heart clenches. When he says things like that, it’s hard to not imagine a world where he’s this caring all the time. “Why are you here, Cade?”
“To apologize,” he says.
“You did that already.”
“To apologize extra for ignoring you for days, then.”
“I ignored you, too,” I admit. Because I was afraid that if I didn’t, I’d make a mistake that I couldn’t undo. He’s all I can think about since then, my chest tugging whenever I remember how he said he didn’t want to destroy me.
I’m more upset that Cade thinks he’s capable of destroying anyone, that he’s solely responsible for ruin left behind. He’s not.
“What happened with Belinda?” Cade wonders. “Was it bad?”
“I started to tell her she wasn’t my mom,” I say, sighing. “Then I chickened out.”
“Oh, princess. No.”
I shake my head. “Backtracked completely.”
“That sucks,” Cade decides. “Better luck next time?”
“There won’t be,” I sigh, reaching for a couch pillow to pull close. “I know there won’t. But then I got sad about it for an hour.”
“Which is why you were talking to your mom,” Cade realizes.
I nod, tears welling as I recall it. Cade stands abruptly, holding a hand out. I narrow my eyes at him, but take his hand for him to pull me up. “What are you doing?”
He reaches into his pocket, frees his keys. He shakes them at me. “Ice cream,” he says. “Come on.”