Chapter 60

“I just hope they don’t turn you into one of those ‘starving artists,’” she adds, unable to finish a conversation without taking the last word for herself. “At the end of the day, people still need to buy your art, don’t they, honey? I mean, finding clients and all that. Who knows if –” 

“I’d buy them.” Adrian looks at me as he says it. “I’d buy every single last one of them.” 

As the first genuine smile of the night spreads over my face, my mother silently digs into her steak. 

***

The rest of the meal’s no more than polite chit-chat about Mobile, a few prying questions from Mom about Adrian’s family (which he politely skirts), and rare praise from Rick concerning the steak. 

I escape to the bathroom as Adrian’s flipping through the dessert menu, my nerves as shot as a dead car battery. I just need to make it through a cake slice’s worth of socializing, and then, I’ll be able to retreat to the hotel with Adrian, curl under the covers, and stuff the memory of this dinner into the recesses of my mind. 

That said, tonight could’ve gone worse. 

Sure, I can still feel the tension of it beneath my skin, coiling my muscles tight, but nobody dissolved into tears. Nobody stormed out in a huff. Nobody tried to throw any of the expensive cutlery. 

Tonight, we narrowly avoided bloodshed, and Adrian, in his attempt to examine every part of me under a microscope, could’ve been a casualty. 

I lean against one of the bathroom sinks, close my eyes, and sigh so loudly that it bounces off the forest green walls. At the very least, the moody lighting in here’s a perfect match for my current temperament. 

This is as much peace and quiet as I’ve had the past hour. 

And then the door swings open. 

“Oh, honey. There you are. I was wondering where you went.” 

You’ve got to be kidding me. 

Reluctantly, I peel my eyes open and face my mother. “I was just checking my makeup, that’s all.” Fortunately, my mascara and dusty pink lipstick have fared far better than my sanity tonight. 

She pauses at the sink to my left. “Well, that lip color’s definitely the wrong shade for your complexion, but these are the kind of questions you ask before dinner, honey. Not after.” 

She doesn’t spot my glare as she turns to examine her own reflection in the mirror. 

Liar. 

This lip color looks great on me. 

I clear my throat. “Well, I should get back to –” 

“You seem really tense,” Mom interrupts. “Is there something wrong, Poppy?” 

I stare at her. 

Anyone else and I’d think they were just prodding for a reaction. 

Unfortunately, with Mom, I know better. 

I’m sure, in the time it took her journey from the table to the bathroom, she’s already twisted in the narrative into something that’ll leave her looking far more favorable.

Can you believe it, Rick? I was only expressing a little bit of motherly concern, and Poppy tried to chew my head off about it! 

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Really. I’m not tense.” 

She reaches into her pleather clutch to re-apply some of her own lipstick. Hers is cherry red. “I bet it’s that dress. Playing dress up isn’t always comfortable, especially when it’s the man who’s doin’ the dressing.” 

“The dress is fine.” 

“You know, honey, I’m really proud of you.” 

What? 

“What?” 

If Mom can hear the surprise in my voice, she ignores it. “You’ve done well for yourself, Poppy.” A fresh coat applied, she puckers her lips in the mirror. “I mean, tonight’s proof of that.” 

The ember of hope that flares in my chest is a very dangerous thing, I know that, but it sparks to life anyway. “Well…I’m glad you think so.” I rub the back of my neck, suddenly unsure how to handle this side of my mother. 

An – apparently – proud side. 

“As I said earlier,” I continue. “Nothing’s set in stone. I’ve still got to send out applications, so it’ll be a few months before I know anything concrete.” 

Mom blinks at me. “Oh, yes, well, I’m proud of that too…” She steps close, grabs my hands, and smiles like we’re sharing a secret together. “But, honey, I was actually talkin’ about your little fling out there. You did good. Charming, rich, and handsome rarely end up in the same gene pool.”

My mind only zeroes in on one word. “Adrian isn’t a fling. He’s my boyfriend.” 

She shrugs. “Well, boyfriend. Fling. Whatever you want to call it.” 

“He’s my boyfriend.” First the hotel manager, now my mother – I might as well stick a label to Adrian’s forehead to erase any more confusion. 

“Regardless,” she says, “You remind me of myself when I was your age. Well, before…” 

Me. 

“I mean, I was startin’ to lose hope you had any of my charm when you came home three summers in a row without any suitors.” Her voice drops to a delighted whisper. “Now I see you had your eye on a bigger fish this whole time.” 

She might as well have doused that single ember in cold water. 

“No, it’s not…” I shake my head. “It’s not like that.” 

She cocks an eyebrow. “You don’t need to be coy, honey. I’m happy for you.” Her gaze slides down my dress. “Gettin’ him to come all this way for the holidays, this dinner, and that dress…you’re clearly gettin’ your money’s worth for as long as he sticks around.” 

I drop her hands and take a step back. “That’s not what this is. I’m not conning Adrian for money.”

“I didn’t say you were,” she argues. “I’m sure, whatever money that boy’s spent, it’s of his own free will. You probably haven’t asked for a thing.” 

“I haven’t.” I hate how defensive I sound when my mother’s just doing what she does best – trying to poke holes in the pieces of my life. 

“And I wouldn’t judge you if you had, honey,” she says, a gentle tenor to her voice. Like I’m the unreasonable one. “Men, especially men like that…their attention’s fleeting. You take what you can while you can.” 

Frustration bubbles underneath my skin. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. This isn’t a fling, and Adrian’s attention isn’t fleeting. He’s the one trying to convince me to go to Harvard with him.”

She scrutinizes me silently. 

And then she laughs. 

It’s not the teenaged giggle she let out when recounting her relationship with Rick or the same mocking chuckle that belittled my art. 

This is a jagged, sharp sound packing thirty-six years of bitterness – and I feel every single one echoing off the bathroom walls. 

I barely hold back a wince. 

“Oh, Poppy,” she drawls. “You poor thing.” She stops just short of me, and cups my face in her hands so we’re perfectly eye-to-eye. “You poor, naïve thing. You don’t get it yet, do you?” 

I swallow the questions building in my throat. I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of being curious. 

I should just walk out of this bathroom. 

I don’t need to hear whatever revelation she thinks she’s come to after a single dinner in Adrian’s presence. 

But I still stay. 

“I’m sure you think you have somethin’ special with that boy,” she says quietly. “But honey, you need to listen to me. You need to be realistic. This is a fling. You get that in your head now, or you get it in your head three months from now when his attention strays somewhere else.” 

I scoff. “You don’t know that.” 

“I do know that,” she says firmly. “It doesn’t matter what he tells you, honey. Doesn’t matter what he buys you. Men are attracted to shiny, new toys. In a few months, you won’t be shiny or new anymore, so he’ll starting looking for the next. It’s better you prepare yourself now when –” 

“Stop.” I tear my face out of her grip. “The last person I need giving me advice about men is you.” 

She chuckles. “Oh, is that right?” 

I realize that I’m treading into dangerous territory now, an inch from creating lasting damage I’m not sure I’ll be able to undo.

What I should do is just keep my mouth shut and let her say her piece – just like I did earlier tonight. 

Just like I’ve done every other day of my life. 

Why is she the only one who’s allowed to inflict damage? 

Why do I have to be the adult? 

Even now, her arms crossed and chin tilted up in defiance, she’s slipped effortlessly into her role. She can say whatever she likes, knowing I’m the one that’ll quietly stomach it all.

I take a deep breath, years of resentment burning the back of my throat. 

Not this time. 

“That is right,” I tell her, and surprise flickers over her face. “You don’t get to talk about Adrian like he’s just another loser crashing on the couch for three months. He’s not Ed. He’s not Steve. He’s not Jeremy. And he’s definitely not Rick.” 

As I suspected, it’s that last name that triggers Mom. “Don’t you dare say a bad thing about Rick. He’s –” 

“He’s what?” I snap. “A free-loader? An alcoholic? A strain on your finances? I mean, honestly, Mom, you look at Rick like he personally hung the stars in the sky, and I’ve never even seen him hang a fucking picture on the wall.” 

She clears her throat. “You know, I’d think you have more respect for him given the way he’s –”

“Stepped up?” I laugh. “Right. Rick. Step-dad of the year. Takes me fishing. Calls to chat about my day. Makes sure I get home for Christmas. Offers fatherly advice.” I tap my finger against my chin like I’m thinking. “Oh, wait. He doesn’t do any of those things.”

She opens her mouth. 

And then shuts it. 

“I know my standards for a father are pretty low considering, well, I’ve never had one, but barely tolerating my presence doesn’t count,” I continue. “Rick doesn’t care about me, and he never will, no matter what you tell me or you tell yourself.”

It probably shouldn’t feel so cathartic to watch my mother visibly wince at my words, but it does. 

For once, I’m happy to cut her as deeply as she’s cut me. 

“That’s not…” She shakes her head vehemently. Her bottom lip starts to wobble. “You’re just saying these things. You just want to upset me. You don’t want me to be happy. You never have. It’s never allowed to be about my happiness.” 

“It’s always about your happiness!” I shout, and then pause, realizing how loud I am. Quieter, I add, “And you’ve made it very clear I’m the reason you’re not. You blame me for not going to college. For being stuck in Mobile. For not finding some nice, white-collar guy that’ll put a ring on your finger.”