A symphony of crickets.
“You’re staying in Oakcreek?” she asks with surprise in her tone.Um, no, I just took a managerial job in a town I’m going tomove away fromtomorrow.
I roll my eyes, taking pleasure in the fact that she can’t see them. “Yes, Mom.”
“Goldie, the city has so much more opportunity,” she starts, but I cut her off because I refuse to let her deflate me right now.
“I was miserable in the city.”
“And you’re happy now? In the sticks?” she asks, condescension heavy in her tone.
The truth is, I wasn’t happy even last week. The last few days have me feeling… really good. “I am,” I say, loving for once that it’s a truthful answer. No contrived bullshit. I hate that my honesty is wasted on someone who doesn’t care or appreciate it whatsoever.
“I’m sure the Brutes would love to have you back, Goldie. And you can’t possibly be making as much at a local car dealership. I mean, they are a Major League Baseball team! They’re the Brutes! Quit being a baby. Go back to them. Sometimes having a big ego isn’t worth it, dear.”
Ego? My jaw clenches, and my stomach burns at her insensitive, cruel, and judgmental words.
Mom may not know what happened with Reynold, but she met me in the city the day after it all went down. She saw my face–the deep bags and the redness, the swelling. The way I could hardly hold my body up to sit in a restaurant chair. How I could hardly speak. All I did was cry.
She shouldn’t have to know I was used, raped, and blackmailed to take my side. She’s my mother, and she should take my side because of that, no matter what.
But she doesn’t. And she never has. But right now? Itreallyfeels like a betrayal.
“You know what, Mom? You have no fucking clue what you’re talking about!” I shout, and now that the floodgates of volume and rage are opened, I can’t find the strength to close them.
I don’t want to.
“It isn’t my ego keeping me from going back to an organization that cares more about winning than human fucking rights!” My temples pound, and my whole body shakes as my hand slides over the textured wall, now gripping it to keep me steady. My anger has me trembling.
“Human rights, Jesus, Goldie, put the drama in the backseat for once. Whatever it is, it can’t be bad enough to say you can’t go back and poke around and just see.” My vision blurs as her words bounce around in my brain, refusing to be processed. “And anyway, they’re a sports team. Of course, their first concern is winning.”
“For once in your entire life, could you just please take my fucking side! Believe me when I say I’m hurt; trust me when I say what happened goes beyond some ego bullshit and understand when I’m happy, that I want you to be happy with me!” I shout, my heart beating so fucking hard that I actually get a little dizzy. With my hand still on the wall, I slide down to a crouch at the end of Beck’s hallway, nearly panting.
“Go get some exercise; you sound very high-strung. Call me tomorrow.” Then she hangs up.
She fucking hangs up on me.
I fall back on my butt and grip my head in my hands, letting my phone fall to the floor with a clatter that makes the hairs on my neck rise. I can’t even have a good day without her making me hate myself. Because here I am, sitting on the floor at my celebration dinner, tears stinging my eyes, mad at myself. I’m not even mad at her.
You can’t argue with stupid, but you can’t argue with a narcissist, either.
I know she’s going to bait and gaslight. I KNOW THIS. It isn’t my first phone call with Constance Berry. Still, I let her get to me. I let her gaslight me when I should have walked away.
I stood up to her, though. I told her my truth. I explained how I felt. Maybe I shouldn’t have screamed it, but you know what, Rome wasn’t built in a day and all that. Still, I called her out. And that’s what has me smiling as I reach for my phone when two black boots appear.
My heart stutter-steps, but of course, I look up to see Beau. His smile is broad when he outstretches a hand. “Hiya, Goldie. I hear congratulations are in order.”
Gah. What a gentleman Beck nabbed.
He helps me up and even grabs my phone, wiping it off before handing it back to me. “So, congratulations,” he chuckles, and I nod with a smile.
“Thank you, yeah, the whole crying on the floor thing wasn’t part of the celebration plan, but…” I shrug, “that’s me. Unpredictable.”
He grins, and I think he doesn't realize I was crying, or maybe I’m just so good at hiding it he can’t tell. Either way, he jerks his head toward the kitchen. “Beck’s got everything ready, and I feel bad I’m late. Let’s eat.”
I nod and trail behind him, but… the entire exchange with my Mom has my stomach sour. No, not sour. Fucking rotten. Twisting and churning, causing my appetite to disappear completely. I press a hand to my lower belly, pushing at the burn lingering there.
Beck went all out on this taco bar. Like, all fucking out. And when we get into the kitchen, my guilt is transformed into surprise when I see Atticus there, his long hair greasy, pulled into a bun. He brings an amber bottle labeled “Porter Stout” to his lips, taking a long pull. His Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps, and I notice the stubble coating his jaw and cheeks is even fuller today. His nails are dirty, and his jeans are stained; the Wrench Kings t-shirt he’s wearing under his open flannel is smeared in grease or oil, too.