Chapter 26
AMY
Kirstin isn’t talking to me, so it’s weird when a text comes through from her.
It’s been almost a week since that night, when I left Evan’s cabin in the back of the cop car, then made the drive back home to Denver, playing the scene again and again in which I couldn’t admit that I like him. That I love him.
Right now, I’m sitting at work, even though everyone else has left the office, making my way through paperwork that could wait. If I still had Evan and Granite Peaks, I would leave the paperwork until Monday. I would have left hours ago to go to the place that was just starting to feel like home.
But I don’t have them. So, I slog through spreadsheets and documents, sorting them and ensuring everything is in its place, until the buzz of my phone pulls my attention away from it.
Kirstin: Mom is back in town.
A rush of nausea swirls in my stomach at the sight of those words.
It’s a warning, I know, and not an olive branch. If I’d known, I would have warned her, too, even with the chilly silence sitting between us.
But the warning comes too late, because the next thing I know, my phone is ringing, Mom flashing over the phone screen, the photo of me and her at my graduation stretching to all four sides of the phone.
In the picture, she’s immaculate, wearing a peach-colored dress that would wash anyone else out, a strand of pearls around her neck shining in the bright sunlight. The heels she wears are impossibly tall, and I remember her wearing them all day without complaint.
Like always, the sight of that caller ID fills me with a strange sense of euphoria and trepidation.
“Hey, love,” Mom says, the same way she always starts her calls, sounding like she might still be in the airport, her voice a little breathy from walking. I can picture her, striding along on the phone, darting through the crowds effortlessly. “Just got in from Italy. Want to meet for a drink?”
It’s not really a question; it’s more of a demand.
And I’m powerless to say no, since I’ve been trying to impress her from the time I was old enough to slide my tiny feet into her heels and clomp around the house.
Plus, the side of me that would normally come up with some sort of excuse is dormant, so tired and run-down from everything with Evan that I hear myself agreeing.
“Sure, where did you have in mind?”
Fifteen minutes and a rideshare later, I’m sitting in a dim, fragrant bar, sipping on a cranberry vodka while I wait for my mom to show up. This isn’t the kind of place Kirstin and I would usually go. We’re both doing decently financially, but not thirty-six dollars for a vodka cran decent.
I can’t stop myself from smiling, lips tweaking at how I’m sure Evan would react to this place—the servers in full suits, the staggering appetizer prices, the scent floating through the air that must be pumped in through the vents.
“Amy.”
Mom’s voice startles me out of my thoughts, and I force myself to smile at her as she rounds the table, kissing each of my cheeks like we’re girlfriends, rather than mother and daughter.
“How are you?” she asks, settling into her seat and giving me an intense look. “Kirstin said you’re up for a promotion at work.”
The sound of my sister’s name makes my mouth taste acidic. I’m sure the promotion was a minor point in the discussion, but Kirstin should have known better than to think our mother would be on her side for this.
“Yeah,” I say, stirring my cocktail, which I’ve hardly sipped from. For some reason, the taste of it is making me sick to my stomach. “We’ll see what happens.”
“I’m sure you’ll get it,” Mom says, crossing her long, tan legs and raising her hand to a server gracefully.
When he comes over, she gives him a long explanation of the drink she wants and how she wants it, and he hurries away to bring it to her.
I might look out of place here, but she certainly doesn’t.
When they’re gone, she finds my eyes again, going on, “You were always more like me in that way. Driven—I wish your sister was more like you.”
“I broke up with my boyfriend,” I say, and the moment the words come out of my mouth, I blink in shock. There’s a reason I never brought Evan up to my mom. She never would have understood why I liked him. What could possibly be appealing about his way of life.
For some inane reason, I think she might comfort me. Ask about what happened. I realize for the first time that I’m dying to talk it through. That some advice from someone older and more experienced than me might actually be the balm I need to come out of this strange, numbing funk.
But Mom waves her hand absently, “Boys are a waste of time, Amy.”
Of course she thinks that. She never made her relationship with my dad a priority. One of the reasons their story ended in divorce.
“I mean,” I swallow, looking away from her for a moment, my gaze settling instead on some sort of high-end cowboy painting on the wall. “It’s not like I have forever, if I want to have kids.”
“Oh, that’s an easy answer,” my mom snorts, leaning forward and touching her hand to mine briefly. “Don’t.”
I glance back up at her, hurt piercing through me.
She must realize a second later that she is, in fact, talking to her child, because she says, “Oh—I mean, obviously I love you, Amy. But I mean, if I had a time machine, I’d go back and give myself some much-needed advice.
That I didn’t need to be a mother to feel whole.
Didn’t need marriage and all that just because society made me feel like I did.
And you don’t either.” She squeezes my hand, then pulls hers back, taking a sip from her drink when the server brings it over.
“I see myself in you. And if you keep working this hard, imagine how much further than me you could end up going.”
My heartbeat is in my throat, soft palate suddenly ice-cold.
Is that what I want? To be like my mother? Career over everything, to the point where my own children might send each other warning texts?
She tells me about her trip to Italy, and I stare at her, trying to swallow down the pain of her admission. She never wanted kids but felt pressured to do it.
How it has changed. For me to want that life, but feel, for some reason, like I shouldn’t go after it. I wait to feel bitter toward her, to wish that I’d gotten a mother who might actually care about me, but it’s not her fault things worked out the way they did.
And, in a way, she’s given me just as much value by showing me what I could become.
At the end of the night, she gives me her usual quick, one-armed hug, her Armani perfume drifting over me and reminding me of my childhood, her rushing out the door early in the morning while Dad got us ready for school.
“Love you, Amy,” she says, then pulls back. “You’re looking kind of pale, love. Maybe try a tanning bed.”
With that, she blows a kiss in my direction before turning and walking down the street, her phone already to her ear as she goes, heels clicking every step of the way.
“Love you, too,” I whisper, feeling something bright start to grow in my chest.
Then, I turn, step to the large round trash can just outside the bar, and throw up everything I’ve had since breakfast that morning.