11. Sorry Not Sorry #3
It’s not like I’ve done something wrong, but with the way I startle at the sound of the feminine voice, you would think I’ve been caught snooping through someone’s underwear drawer.
I whirl around to see Mrs. Rivers leaning against the door jamb separating the hallway from the kitchen. Anytime I’ve seen her—usually at the country club or attending school social events—she’s always dressed up like my stepmom, in what Blythe prefers to call “business casual attire.”
But Mrs. Rivers isn’t wearing her usual blouse, slacks, and pearl necklace.
She’s in a worn pair of cotton leggings, flip-flops, and an oversized t-shirt that reads, “More Books To Get Than F*cks to Give.” Her typically sleek shoulder-length blonde locks are pulled up into a messy bun, and I can see a hint of dark brown roots at her hairline.
Jase may take after his father regarding build and facial structure, but it’s clear who he inherited his hair and eyes from.
She introduces herself, moving in next to me to point at the painting I’d been admiring most. “This has always been my favorite. I did this the summer after I got my bachelor’s degree.”
Wait…
“ You painted these?” I don’t mean to sound so surprised, but Jase’s mom has never been known for being anything other than your run-of-the-mill PTA mom-slash-housewife. If she’s this talented, why hasn’t she been featured in any of the art galleries downtown?
I broach the question as politely as I can when she confirms, but it’s Jase who provides answers, not sounding particularly pleased.
“Oh, you won’t be finding her work anywhere so long as Dad’s mistress is still lurking around.”
I balk, because… what?
Mrs. Rivers catches my expression and actually laughs. “Jason’s referring to Clark, his dad’s campaign manager.”
I’m slightly more relieved, but just as confused. “Didn’t he just get reelected to Congress this past fall? Why would he already need a campaign manager again?”
“You’re assuming he got rid of him,” Jase mutters.
Mrs. Rivers, or Carmen, as she insists, explains that Clark essentially works as both manager and publicist, depending on what political ‘season’ it is.
“‘And any little perceived wrongdoing now can hurt you in a big way come election time.’” She quotes this with a roll of her eyes, clearly having heard it more than once.
“Clark wants Michael to have as squeaky-clean of a reputation as he can, and he believes my paintings could hurt that.”
“Why?” It’s not like her artwork is pornographic or something.
“It isn’t about the art itself,” says Jase. “It’s about who’s buying it, and special interests are always trying to gain favor with politicians.”
“So, buy a painting, buy a favor?” I wager.
He nods. “It doesn’t matter that she had been selling her work for over ten years before my dad even ran for office, but, well, Clark says ‘jump,’ and my old man is too eager to listen.
Since she’s not allowed to sell her artwork anymore, Mom figured at least she could still work in a gallery, until Clark took issue with that as well. ”
“That’s where I remember you from.” Mrs. Rivers’s eyes narrow as she takes in my appearance, but it doesn’t hold the suspicion Blythe’s always does.
“I used to see you outside the Garrison Gallery when you were little. Every Tuesday and Thursday, at the dance studio next door with your mom and sister. Are you a ballerina?”
I laugh, and not only at the absurd fact that she’d actually remember me .
Yeah, with my tiny waist, complete lack of curves, and gangly, thin limbs, it isn’t a stretch to think I could be a ballerina just by looking at me. Sadly, I confess, “No, my sister’s the only dancer in the family. I just used to tag along to Vanessa’s lessons.”
Jase’s mom nods, but she’s no longer looking me in the eyes. Her gaze is a couple inches too high. “Is that your grandfather’s?” she asks, glancing at her son.
I realize she’s referring to the Red Sox cap, and insecurity has me peeling it off. Or, at least, I try to. I only get as far as lifting the brim when Jase’s hand tugs it right back into place.
“Indeed it is,” he says simply.
Mrs. Rivers grins, still eyeing me. “So, you’re the one who’s managed to drag my son out of his Bat Cave as of late. Usually, we have to do everything short of throwing smoke grenades into the theater room to get him to leave. How did you two meet?”
“Animal attack,” Jase says, not bothering to elaborate as he prepares the next bag of popcorn.
I elbow him in the side when he fails to hide his grin at his mother’s confusion.
Explaining the bird incident is easy enough, but the rest?
Not so much. I haven’t seen Blythe and Mrs. Rivers engage in anything more than casual small talk, but I don’t want to risk word getting back to my stepmom that I was here.
Jase, on the other hand, doesn’t bother dancing around the subject, outright calling Blythe a word that rhymes with “witch” as he recounts the terms of my house arrest.
I balk, expecting Mrs. Rivers to at least condemn her son’s language, but to my shock, she just looks over at me.
When I don’t argue his position, she grins. “Considering what I just witnessed at the grocery store, I can’t say I’m surprised.”
The mention has me breaking out in a cold sweat, because what?
“You just saw my stepmom there?”
Mrs. Rivers nods, understandably not seeing what the big deal is.
I, on the other hand, am losing my shit.
Blythe always saves grocery shopping for her last errand of the day. She wouldn’t be at the market unless she was planning on returning home immediately after, and since she already bought a bulk of the groceries yesterday, it would be a short trip.
I don’t even need to say anything. One look at my expression tells Jase enough. We’re charging out the door before Mrs. Rivers can ask what’s wrong.
Never in my entire life have I run this fast. Jase and I don’t bother with sidewalks, cutting across every last park, street, and yard until we reach the grove behind my house.
We weave our way through the trees and bolt out onto the property.
I know Jase is far more athletic than me, but even he’s panting as we come to the side of the house.
And just in time.
The mechanical workings of what can only be from the garage shudder to a halt as the door shuts.
Crap, crap, crap!
Did Blythe just get home?
Did she already bring the groceries inside?
Does she know I’m not here?
The questions run through my head on a continuous loop as I scramble for the lattice.
Sure, I could try sneaking in the front or back door, but there’s no way of knowing where my stepmom is. And what if she’s not alone?
Too many variables leave me with the not-so-stellar option of climbing the garden trellis.
It’s made of powder-coated steel, so it can thankfully support my weight, but I’m not afforded the luxury of time to navigate the plants growing around the framework safely.
Leaves and vines bat me in the face with every step I take, and I’m pretty sure I have a spider in my hair.
The knowledge would typically have me shrieking, but an infinitely more terrifying sound comes from inside.
Blythe.
And it may just be my imagination, but she doesn’t seem happy—not when she calls my name.
Even with the window only cracked an inch at the bottom, it’s enough to let her voice filter out to me as I hear the unmistakable clack of her heels pounding down the hall toward my room.
I’m still five feet shy of reaching the window ledge, and to make matters worse, my shoe gets caught on something!
I tug furiously, far too willing to abandon the footwear outright, but my laces are tied too tightly. Not to mention, I don’t exactly have a spare hand to assist me, unless I’d like to take a swan dive onto the lawn.
I feel the trellis rattle beneath me, and sure enough, I peer down to find Jase scaling up to meet me.
“Ali!”
Shit.
There’s no mistaking it.
Blythe is in my room.
And I’m not.
Jase grabs my foot, angling it and giving a hard enough tug that I hear fabric tearing.
I don’t care—not when my foot comes free and I’m able to climb the remaining distance.
Only when I hear Blythe’s voice coming from further down the hall do I poke my head up into view of the window and lift the bottom section of the glass.
My “ninja” skills are rather lacking, since I practically fall inside, but again, I don’t care. All I can focus on is the sharp clacking of heels making their way back to me from down the hall.
As expected, Blythe comes to a halt at the entrance to my room, ready to yell again, when she freezes at the sight of me. “Where have you been, young lady?”
“…Here,” I murmur lamely. It sounds more like a question, but I can’t help it. My anxiety and exhaustion are sparring for top spot, and it takes everything I have not to collapse on the floor shaking.
“Then why didn’t you answer me?”
“I…I was in the basement,” I say, “and I had earbuds in, so I didn’t hear you until just now.”
My stepmom studies my body, clearly not liking what she sees. “And what exactly were you doing? You’re all sweaty.”
A flash of inspiration strikes at the sight of my sister’s old tennis racquet I’d placed behind my bed earlier.
It had been taken with the intent of becoming my unofficial bird swatter, in case another raven invasion arose, but Blythe doesn’t have to know that.
I lift up the racquet and hug it to my chest like a shield. “I was practicing.”
She opens her mouth, as if to argue, but inevitably settles for a shake of the head.
“I won’t even dignify that with a response.
Just make sure to shower and be presentable by six.
Senator Walker and his wife are coming over, and we all need to make a good impression, so you can’t just sit there and not say anything. ”
Yes, that proves to be a problem for me, quite frequently.