Chapter 34
Serena Rourke looks as if time hasn’t had an effect on her.
Her skin is still as flawless as I remember it being when I was eighteen and pimple-faced.
The expertly curled black hair that reaches just past her shoulders falls in a way that screams professional blowout.
She has the front pieces pulled back to expose her slim cheekbones and the indent at the centre of her chin that I realize now she shares with her son.
If she were to smile, I know without a doubt that she’d have matching dimples, too.
I’m only five six, but I still stand a few inches above her. In a pair of robin-egg-blue Converse shoes, she roams familiar green eyes over me, surprised but attempting to hide just how much. Her lips are glossy, and they press firmly together before parting suddenly.
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t know anyone was here, or I would have knocked. Please forgive me for being so rude,” she rambles.
Her voice is warm, comforting despite being chock full of worry. I brush it off with a shake of my head and swipe my sweaty palms down my thighs.
“It’s okay. You’re probably here all the time.”
She adjusts her purse strap where it sits heavily on her bare shoulder, leaving a divot in her tan skin. I can make out a brief tan line behind the edge of her tank top. Looking across her body, I see the same line on her other side.
“No, it’s not okay. If I’d known someone was here, I . . . It doesn’t matter. I totally stuck my foot in my mouth here. I’m Serena, Beck’s mother.”
I force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as uncomfortable as it feels. “I remember. Uh, I knew Beck in school. Quinn Archer.”
She beams at me. It’s not exactly the response I was expecting. I pull back a bit as her entire demeanour changes with the flip of a switch, becoming bright and welcoming rather than curious and almost shy.
“Oh, I was hoping you would remember me. Look at you! You’re all grown up and so, so stunning.
I’m relieved you didn’t dye your hair. It fits you perfectly.
” With an offhand move, she dumps her purse on the kitchen island, and my brows jump into my hairline when it makes a loud bang.
Soft, strong hands find my biceps and squeeze.
“He was right. I always knew he was a smart boy, but to see you in person? It’s everything. ”
“Right about what?” I ask slowly.
She keeps smiling. “How is your café? Is the water all taken care of?”
“It’s good. My apartment’s almost finished, too. Please tell your husband thank you for me. I appreciate him helping Beck with the water. I’m sorry he called you so late, though.”
She clicks her tongue. “Don’t apologize for that. That’s what family is for. Beck knows he can call whenever he needs to. Plus, between you and me, his father misses all the late-night calls he used to get when Beck was younger.”
“Right,” I agree, pretending I know what she’s talking about.
My mother didn’t even answer her phone when a nine-year-old Callie got hit while biking home from school and was taken to the hospital in an ambulance.
I was the one who had to leave work barely ten minutes after clocking in for my afternoon shift and bribe one of the regulars at Lucy’s Diner to drive me to see her.
Luckily, she had only broken her leg and needed a few stitches for a gash in her forearm.
I got to take her home that night, but it was three days after that when our mother finally remembered we existed and wandered home from her stint at her favourite crack house with an armful of fresh track marks.
By then, Callie had begun to pretend she wasn’t hurt anymore and pushed me into letting go of my anger before I wound up sending Mom out on her ass.
Lord knows how long it had been since she’d contributed to the too-high rent or stocked the fridge.
For all intents and purposes, our mobile home was mine, not hers.
It was just her name on the paperwork, the same way it was on Callie’s birth certificate.
A swirl of ink doesn’t make someone a parent.
I don’t care how many months she carried us or how terrible our deliveries were.
Some people aren’t meant to be parents. They don’t deserve to be. And I know it wasn’t only because of the drugs. She never wanted to be a mother. Our lives were planned years before she’d gotten her first hit.
“Well, I was only coming by to drop off a few things that I borrowed the last time we watched Bodi. I can always come back another time. After I call first, of course,” she says, her tone playful, completely unbothered.
My tongue has a mind of its own and starts running without approval. “It’s fine. I don’t mind the company.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. I was debating what to have for dinner, actually. But if you already ate—”
“Nope! Just let me text my husband and let him know he’s making his own food tonight.”
There’s a stutter in my heartbeat before it calms again. “Yeah, I should let Beck know I’m okay, too. I hung up on him when you got here.”
The buzzing in my pocket is impossible to ignore now. I bite back a smile at his worry, knowing damn well how evil it makes me to be enjoying it even a little bit. But hey, I never claimed to be completely sane, nor a healthy-minded person.
Serena laughs, and I follow suit while turning away and fishing my phone out. A sick sense of approval floods me when I start reading the messages.
King Of My Heart
Jesus Christ! Don’t hang up on me like that.
What’s wrong? Are you okay?
Do I need to call the police? Security?
Remind me to put a camera up outside my door the minute I get home.
Seriously, baby. Answer me.
I’m good. Your mom is here.
The typing bubble appears instantly.
King Of My Heart
WHAT?
I’ll text you later.
Before I can delete it, I send the message with the kissy emoji still included. And just like I expected, he reacts in perfect Beck fashion.
King Of My Heart
My favourite emoji ever. Remind my mom about G code.
The flaming red heart shouldn’t make me blush, but goddammit, it does. Inhaling a deep breath, I lock my phone and drop it on the island beside Serena’s bag. She’s on the phone, talking to Beck’s dad, I assume.
Without eavesdropping, I open the right side of the fridge and start sorting through the groceries inside.
“Have you ever had cowboy meatballs before?”
I look over my shoulder, finding her standing behind me with her eyes narrowed inside the fridge.
“No. I haven’t had a whole lot of anything that doesn’t come from a box in my life.” I brush my hair off my forehead. “Beck wants me to remind you of G code.”
“Of course he did.” Her eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Want to give them a try? It’s a Rourke family recipe, and I know for a fact my son has all of the ingredients here.
He used to guilt me and his grandmother into making them for him every time he went out to her ranch, and he always keeps the supplies on hand now just in case. ”
“I can’t imagine Beck on a ranch.” I rub my forearm as a stark image of Beck in a pair of cowboy boots and Wrangler jeans floods my thoughts. “Are they spicy?”
“Oh, he loved going. We haven’t been out for a couple of years, though. As for the meatballs, they’re usually a bit spicy. Thoughts?” She watches my face tighten up and then winks. “I can make it work without the chiles. Don’t worry about a thing.”
“Thank you. A high spice tolerance must run in your family.”
Backing up a step, I let her in front of me so she can rifle through the fridge. She’s so small that the fridge looks massive in comparison. It’s hard to believe she birthed Beck. From the photos I’ve seen and the spotty memories, her husband is a huge guy, which I guess helps a bit.
“I’ve never put much thought into it, but I suppose you’re right.
I’ve always been a bit heavy-handed with my seasonings, and when nobody complained, I just kept going until they did.
Turns out that both my husband and son made an agreement back when Beck was ten that they’d never complain about anything I cooked for them.
I’m sure you can imagine how that turned out for them from time to time. ”
With a pound of ground beef in her arms, along with a bunch of other random items, she spins and stalks to the other side of the island. I roll my lips when her attention shifts to the pantry I’ve become quite familiar with lately, already prepped to help grab whatever she needs.
“They choked down a few meals, I’m guessing?”
She barks a laugh and takes the lead before I can. With a tug, she has the pantry open and is grabbing at items. “Oh, more than a few. Maybe that’s when they stopped being spice sensitive. I’ve burned their taste buds too badly for them to feel it anymore.”
“I grew up on noodle cups and Hamburger Helper, so mine are completely intact.”
My throat tightens as I move past her and quickly grab the things she’s collected in her hands.
She doesn’t try to stop me, and I appreciate it.
I take a fleeting glance at the ever-growing collection of peppermint tea boxes and organic honey jars and force my stomach to stop fluttering before I fly away.
“You’re in luck, sweetheart, because I’ve got one big head full of recipes to share. Come help me, and for the love of God, please confirm that the collection of honey taking up that entire shelf is for you, because he’s highly allergic to it.”
I sputter a laugh that isn’t really a laugh more than an awkward choking noise and whip my head in her direction. “He’s what?”
“The last time he touched the stuff, he swelled up so badly he spent a night in the hospital because they couldn’t get it to go down.”
So why in the fuck has he been making me tea with it every single day?
The butterflies drop dead as I roughly drop the load of ingredients on the counter. “I hope you don’t take offense when I say that I’m going to yell at him the minute he gets home.”