“You’ve never told me what happened.”
My throat tightens. “I can’t ...”
“Put it out in the universe. Let the words out. Release your truth.”
A long exhale leaves my chest. “You wanna know why she hates me?”
“Yeah. ’Cause I gotta tell you—you’re a good fucking person. I can’t understand a mother not wanting to see a man like you.”
His words hit me in the chest, the truth in them, and I stare down at the ground, not wanting him to see the anguish on my face. “When I was little, she called me her sunshine. She marveled over how much I looked like my dad. She’d kiss me and say, ‘You’re gonna break hearts just like he does mine.’” I pause. “It was hard, being the person between them, but I did my best. I hated him but loved her energy, you know, the excitement. She’d write a play in one night. She’d design me an elaborate tree house and have someone build it. She’d put on her mink coat and go out and buy three cars at once. When I was in high school, she got obsessed with art. Over Christmas, we went to Paris, Rome, Milan—and hit every museum. We barely slept. I wanted to call my dad, but he knew—he knewshe was in a phase and just let me deal with it.” A scoff comes from me. “She made me love art.”
I sigh. “It all went south when I came home for my twenty-fifth birthday. I was a superstar in the NFL; nothing could bring me down, but when I walked in that house ...” I pause, keeping my voice calm, factual. “Mom was in one of her phases. She’d invited half the town, decorated the whole place. I brought my girlfriend and Ronan. An hour before guests were supposed to arrive, she got agitated. Nothing was right: the caterers, the decor, her dress, me. She said my dad invited hismistress. I don’t know if that is true. My dad ... he and I ... we weren’t close, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Jasper nods.
I clear my throat. “Anyway, she spent fifty grand on the party and called it off. Ronan and I tried to talk her down, but nothing would convince her. She accused Dad of cheating. He accused her of being a psycho and fucking any man she could find. She hit him; he punched her—then me and Ronan pulled him off. My girlfriend called the police, and my mom freaked. They were high society, and she didn’t want anyone to know how fucked up we were. She tore her clothes, went after Ronan, then me. My dad stormed out of the house ...” I stop, sucking in air. “He backed out of our driveway, revved the engine, then drove into a giant tree in our front yard.”
I stare down at my hands, frowning at the scars. “The car door was stuck—and the other doors locked. I tried to go in through his window with a rock, then put my hands in to touch him. He was dead.” I shake off the memory of my father’s busted face, the blood from his chest. “My mom was screaming that it was my birthday, that it was my fault, that I shouldn’t have been born. It was a mess. I had to manage the funeral and took a few weeks off.” A huff comes from me. “My girlfriend tried to sell the story to the media, and I had to pay her off and get an NDA.”
Jasper’s eyes are wide. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”
I nod. “Yeah. When I came back to New York, Mom sold the house, bought a million-dollar RV—one of those motor homes—and drove out west to meet a man she met online. She married him, some sleazy movie guy, then got divorced. She bought a house on the beach in Carmel, then sold it and moved to Nantucket with another man. She met another guy and moved to Boston. It just went round and round—a different guy, a different place. Some of them used her for her money. Maybe some loved her. Five years ago she got arrested for attacking a woman who was with her ex. She needed help and came tome. I paid off the woman, got the charges dismissed, and got her into Greenwood. It’s not a mandatory place. It’s not like an institution, so don’t think I locked my mom away. I offered help, and she took it. She wanted to get herself straightened out. It felt like a restart for both of us, her coming to me, then getting treatment, but ...”
“I’m sorry. What can I do?”
“Nothing.” I face him. “My own mother despises me, and there’s nothing anyone can do about that.” I exhale. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter 10
FRANCESCA
Heyis the text I get from a number I don’t recognize.
I pause under the canopy of Lottie’s Bookstore and Coffee Shoppe. I only give my cell out to priority clients and friends.
Who is this?I send.
It’s me. What are you doing right now?
I text out a reply.I’m super busy rewatching SpongeBob SquarePants, the Band Geek episode. You got my drugs? Me and my frat bros are waiting. Bring the good stuff this time.
Is this the episode where Squidward tries to impress his fancy cousin?
Okay, they know theirSpongeBob.Wrong number, weirdo.
I throw my phone inside my leather satchel and walk inside and take my favorite table. The scent of coffee washes over me, and I inhale deeply.
When the waitress comes, I settle for a cup of apple cider. I study my appearance in the window, and excitement tingles over me. Today’s meeting is with Mr.Jones, my first art client.
I fix the layered bangs I impulsively decided to cut last night, then apply more red lipstick. My cream silk blouse features a keyhole front, a vintage Versace piece from a secondhand shop. My black pencil skirt has a high waist and a gold belt. My leather ankle booties are scuffed but sturdy. My hair is up in a loose chignon, and my eyes are heavy with smoky eye shadow and black eyeliner.
I adjust in my seat. At fifteen weeks pregnant, I still have no noticeable bump, and all my clothes fit. My nausea has eased, my energy has spiked, but the moodiness still lingers. I guess it will until the end.
“Hello, Francesca. It’s good to see you.”
That voice. Soft and uncertain.
My heart stutters, and it takes several beats for me to move my eyes from the window to the man. I swallow thickly at his swept-back dirty-blond hair, the sapphire-blue eyes that always showed every emotion he felt.