“Or your parents,” she says.
Just no,I decide, my whole being rebelling against the idea.
Another ping. The apprehension I’ve been feeling builds as though there’s a tornado creeping closer.
Sierra starts to frown.
Fuck. Me.
Sighing, I pull out my phone. I can pretend to read the texts to make Sierra happy and then put it away.
–Mom: Where are you?
–Mom: I want to talk to you.
–Mom: I’m in the lobby already, so no need to feel guilty about making me wait or anything.
Hah. Guilt is the last thing I’m feeling.
–Mom: By the way, am I going to get to see your girlfriend?
–Mom: I know she’s here.
–Mom: I’m not going anywhere until you respond.
There’s no way I’m letting her see Sierra. But I can’t completely ignore Mom either. She’s stubborn enough and dramatic enough to make sure she gets what she wants. If all else fails, she’ll make a scene. Then someone will film it and it’ll go viral and be talked about for months. She might even let it slip that the drama is about me, and there’s no predicting what the ripple effects of that would be. It’s entirely possible that she could ruin the respectability I’ve been able to cultivate for myself in my career.
Damn it. This is what I get for asking Mom to get me tickets to the concert. I should’ve known she’d demand something in return, and that something is going to be my time and attention when I least want to give it to her.
I take Sierra to the elevator and gently place her in the car. When I don’t follow her in, she holds her thumb on the open button. “Aren’t you coming?”
“I have to make a call,” I lie. “A personal matter I have to deal with.” True enough, although I omit how unpleasant it’s going to be. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to make it quick.”
Sierra looks vaguely curious, but doesn’t probe. “Okay. Take your time.”
I wait until the elevator doors close and the car starts ascending. Then I turn around, raise my mental and emotional shields and march toward the table where Mom is sitting.
She looks up, her eyes crinkling with a smile. But the smile vanishes as quickly as it appeared. God forbid she gets a wrinkle.
When the lines form, they never go away.Mom learned that the hard way in her late twenties. I was only four, so I had no idea why she was crying so inconsolably. All I knew was that she was upset, and that upset me, too. She told me she had lines on her face, but I couldn’t understand what she was talking about or why she hugged me like I was the anchor in her self-destructing world.
Then one day, when I was older and wiser, I had a eureka moment. A little older still and the emotion became disgust. There’s more to life than wrinkles.
She quit crying over every fine line, at least in front of me. These days she does everything in her power to keep her face as smooth as possible. I’m certain the reason the skin around her eyes crinkled at all is because her doctor suffered an accident and she couldn’t get her regularly scheduled Botox injection in time for her trip to Tokyo.
“Hello, Griffin.” Her voice is pleasant. Calm.
It doesn’t reassure me. She can flip to tears and theatrics at will and effortlessly draw everyone’s attention.
“Hello, Mother.” I remain standing.
She gestures at the armchair opposite her. “Why don’t you take a seat?”
“I have plans.”
“Again?” She pouts. “You always have plans.”
I spread my hands. “It isn’t my fault you don’t check with me ahead of time.”