“Since my freshman year of high school, right after you and Dad had a big fight. I remember.”
She places filling on one of the triangles and seals it shut. “It has nothing to do with you.”
Irritation boils through me. “How can you say that? You’re my parents. When one of you leaves for three months, and the other spends a lot of that time crying, of course it has to do with me.”
“I mean it wasn’t your fault.”
“I never thought it was. But it affected me, and like I said, I’m trying to figure some things out.”
Mom slides her turnovers onto a cookie sheet and opens the oven door. “What kind of things?”
“Like, why I am the way I am.”
“You’re an intelligent and generous young woman, Skye. You know who you are.”
She’s not getting it, and I don’t know how to explain it any better without mentioning my foray into BDSM, and that’s so not happening.
Hey, Mom, I wanted my boyfriend to bind me around the neck and choke me, but he refused.
Yeah. Really not happening.
This is getting nowhere. “Never mind, Mom.”
She closes the oven door and wipes her forehead, leaving a smudge of flour on her left eyebrow. “I thought you let this go years ago.”
“I never let it go. I just stopped asking.”
She turns back to her pie crust and cuts out several more triangles for the turnovers. “The past is the past. It doesn’t do any good to revisit it.”
“That’s not true,” I say. “In therapy—”
She turns abruptly and meet my gaze. “You’re in therapy?”
“No. Not currently, but I haven’t ruled it out.”
Her pallor whitens. I stiffen in my chair. For a moment I wonder if she’s about to faint.
“What’s wrong with therapy, Mom?”
“Nothing, of course. Nothing at all. But you’re a success, honey. You’ve always seemed happy to me.”
My mom’s apparent aversion to therapy disturbs me. What exactly is going on?
“I’m happy enough, but that’s not what therapy’s always about, Mom. There are some things I don’t understand about myself. Things I want to understand.”
“Oh, God.” She quickly fills the dough with apples and throws them onto another greased cookie sheet. Then she sits next to me. “I hoped this wouldn’t happen.”
Apprehension edges into me. “What are you talking about? You don’t want me in therapy?”
“No, that’s not what I mean. If you need therapy, I definitely want you in therapy. I just always hoped…”
“Hoped what? What exactly are we talking about here?”
She bites her lower lip. “Where do you think your father went for those months?”
“Honestly? I assume he had an affair.”
“Oh?” Mom cocks her head. Is she surprised?
“If you just tell me, I’ll know.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t.”
“For God’s sake—”
I jump at the doorbell.
Braden. Braden is here, just when I’m making some headway with my mother. I rise to answer the door. “This isn’t over,” I tell her. “Not by a long shot. He’s leaving tonight to go to New York, but I’m here for the rest of the week.”
Braden doesn’t smile when I open the door, but he does seem relaxed, which is a good thing.
“Good morning,” he says as he walks in. He kisses me chastely on the cheek.
“Good morning. My mom has a treat for you. Homemade apple turnovers.”
He inhales. “Is that what I smell? Sounds delicious.”
“Plus bacon and eggs. And strong coffee.”
“Perfect.” He follows me into the kitchen. “Good morning, Maggie.”
My mother pastes a smile on her face, though she’s not fooling me. Something’s got her freaked.
“Good morning, Braden,” she says. “Please, have a seat. I’ll get you a cup of coffee. Cream and sugar?”
“Just black. Thank you.”
Mom sets a cup in front of him. “Turnovers will be out in five minutes. How do you like your eggs?”
“Scrambled,” Braden and I reply in unison.
“Scrambled it is.” She turns back to the stove and takes four eggs from the carton.
I feel like I’m sitting on a block of ice. What have my parents been keeping from me all these years? But next to me sits Braden, the man I adore, looking scrumptious in jeans and a blue button-down the exact color of his eyes. I’m fraught with ambivalence. My body doesn’t know how to react. Braden’s nearness warms me, makes me feel all mushy inside. But my discussion with Mom has me frigid, ready to either fight or take flight.
Perhaps my father didn’t have an affair. That should please me. But all I really know is that my mother has to confer with my father before telling me anything.
Which makes me think it can only be bad.
Chapter Seventeen
“When do you fly out?” I ask Braden when we’ve both cleaned our breakfast plates.
“Not until five p.m. I’ve got a car meeting me at the hotel at two thirty.”
“Okay. What would you like to do until then?”
His gaze burns into me.
Yeah, I know the answer.