Chapter 17 Mom Bomb
MOM BOMB
FORD
“How did you get here?”
My mother tilts her head, her platinum blonde, news-anchor hair barely moving as she gives me a look that says Did you really ask that? “I took an Uber. You’d know that if you responded to my texts. Now, is that any way to greet your mother?”
She holds her arms out wide, waiting for an embrace. My shoes stay glued to the hardwood floor, while Skylar stands behind me. I should hug my mom. I don’t. “B-but you live in Seattle,” I sputter.
“Only for a little while longer,” she says breezily.
My shoulders bunch up. “We were supposed to do this on video, and you just arrived,” I point out, like the absurdity of it will somehow undo reality.
“I called you as soon as I booked my flight.”
“You flew down this morning?” I ask. That’s exactly what the messages I just scanned said, but I’m struggling to believe it, even though the evidence stands in front of me in an Oxford cloth shirt, sensible flats, and her everyday pearls.
“Well, I don’t think she took an Uber from Seattle, Ford,” Skylar points out. “That’s about eight hundred miles.”
That’s a reasonable point. Helpful, even. But is she taking my mom’s side?
Mom, who’s not even supposed to be here right now. The delivery guys are already gone, and it was only supposed to be Skylar and me. But now I know why she was texting Golden Gate Bridge facts this morning—probably because she was flying past it.
Mom turns to the designer, beaming. “Hello! So good to officially meet you.”
She holds out her arms, and Skylar steps in, accepting a warm embrace like they’ve known each other forever. But that’s Skylar. She has this thing about her that draws you to her…whether you want to be drawn or not.
“It’s good that you’re here. I can show you everything now,” Skylar says, rolling with the changes the way I should be. But for some reason, I just can’t.
I clench my jaw. “Mom,” I bite out. “I can’t believe you just showed up.”
“I can’t believe it didn’t occur to me sooner,” she says, like we’re absolutely on the same page. “I woke up at four in the morning thinking—What was I doing? Letting you, young people with young bodies, test the furniture? I have a sixty-three-year-old ass.”
Skylar snorts.
I snap my gaze to the redhead who’s been living rent-free in my head.
She shrugs as if to say, What’s the big deal? “What? I didn’t think your mom would say ass.”
Mom winks at Skylar, then nods conspiratorially my way.
“He still can’t handle it.” She turns back to me.
“So I was in bed, in the dark, your father snoring, and I grabbed my phone and booked the next flight out of Seattle. And mind you, it was a six-thirty departure, so I had to hustle. I know you like your sleep, so I didn’t call you until six, when I was boarding. ”
“I was asleep!”
“I know. Your phone went straight to voicemail. You really should get a landline,” she says, tsking me.
Maybe this is why I’m annoyed. Somehow, she’s twisting this around to make it my fault that she’s appeared out of the blue. “I will never get a landline. Also, I had a game last night.”
“And that was an excellent assist in the third period.” She gives a fist pump.
My mother is fist-pumping me on her pop-in visit. Her fly-by pop-in. The world is upside down.
“As I was saying,” she continues, admonishing me, “I called you and left messages. You really should listen to your voicemails.”
“Oh, you should, Ford,” Skylar says soberly.
“No one checks voicemail,” I say, maybe a little louder than necessary and more annoyed than I should let on. “No one should leave voicemails.”
“I thought you might think that too,” Mom says evenly. “That’s why I sent you several texts.”
“Yes, I know. I just noticed them.” I grab my phone and read from it like I’m giving court evidence.
“Ford, I’m on the plane. Ford, I got a window seat.
Ford, did you know they have to-go boxes on flights?
Oops, I’m wrong. The woman next to me simply asked for one.
They don’t actually have them. Can you imagine?
” I pause and look up. “I can’t, Mom. I can’t imagine. ”
“But it could prevent food waste,” Skylar points out.
I cut her a look.
“To-go boxes on planes are an excellent idea,” Mom says.
“No, they’re not. They’re a terrible idea.” I blow out a breath, desperately trying to figure out why this treacherous ball of frustration is still running through me. “Mom,” I try again.
“Hold that thought, darling. I just need to pop into the little girls’ room.”
Skylar brightens, pointing down the hall. “I put toilet paper in there this morning. It was in my bag with the blankets.”
My mom beams. “I knew I liked you. I always carry tissues, because you never know.”
She saunters to the bathroom while I stand there like a bomb’s just gone off in the kitchen.
The most devastating kind of bomb. A mom bomb.
I drag a frustrated hand through my hair. I really need to let go of this annoyance. This is not who I am.
“This is…she just…crash-landed into my day,” I grumble.
This is par for the course with Mom. Yeah, it throws me off, but I’m used to being thrown off. Opponents try to do it on the ice all the time. Defensemen do it every game.
So why does it bother me so much right now?
Skylar sets a hand on my arm, her tone gentle. “I’ve got this,” she says. “It’ll be easier with her here. And we can test all the furniture and know for sure it’ll work for her.”
I stare at her hand on my arm a little too long.
My heart rate settles a little at her touch, but then I look up, meet her green eyes, and it races again.
Thudding loudly.
I have my answer. I’m irrationally annoyed because I’d been looking forward to spending this time alone with the designer.
My mom just cock-blocked me.