Chapter 61

“I’ve never blamed you,” she sniffles. “I’ve been the one putting food on the table and a roof over your head. I’ve sacrificed…not that you’ve thanked me for it. Nothing I do is ever enough for you.” 

“Nothing I do is ever enough for you,” I counter. “You can talk about sacrifice all you want, but I’m the one who’s always taking second place. I mean, you let me spend Christmas with strangers so you could frolic in California with Ralph. You spent your paycheck on a Christmas gift for Ed. You told Steve I was your little sister just to keep him around.” The long list of grudges I’ve built against my mother comes tumbling out of me all at once. “You were ecstatic about Lionswood, and not because I’d gotten into the world’s best boarding school, but because you finally got to live your child-free fairytale with Rick nine months out of the year. And, tonight, when I bring home someone I care about, you try to diminish that too, but I’m not going to let you project your shitty luck with men onto me.” I’m nearly out of breath as I finish. 

Mom bursts into tears – her greatest weapon – but they don’t elicit the usual brand of guilt from me. 

If anything, I’m relieved. 

And probably ten pounds lighter now that I’m not trying to bury eighteen years worth of mommy issues where nobody’ll ever find it. 

She’s still crying as I realize we’ve spent at least ten minutes in here, hashing it out, which means I’ve left Adrian to deal with Rick. 

I sigh heavily. “Look…tonight’s been a lot, and I’m sure Adrian’s wondering where I’m at, so I should get back. We can revisit this some other time.” 

Probably never. 

My hand’s nearly brushing the door knob when Mom’s voice rings out, “Poppy.” 

She always has to have the last word. 

I reluctantly turn around. 

Mascara streaked across her cheeks, she says, “You’re wrong about one thing.” She tilts her chin up. “I’ve had shitty luck with men, that’s true…but what I said earlier? That’s also true. And you can think me the worst mother in the world, but I don’t want to see you heartbroken.” 

I shake my head. “I’m not going to entertain this. Adrian’s not a fling. He cares about me. I care about him. We have a future together.” 

It feels weird to be speak so confidently about it when, a month or two again, I was sure we didn’t. 

“Oh, honey.” Her watery smile contains nothing but pity. “Men like that do not end up with girls like us. They like to have sex with us. They like to date us. They like to buy us pretty things. They may even think themselves in love with us, but at the end of the day, they’ll marry woman with a nicer pedigree. Someone they can take home to their families, show off to their friends.” 

I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “Adrian’s not like that.” 

“Honey, they’re all like that.” 

“Not him. We have history,” I argue. “He wants a future. He’s the one who pushes for it. He’s the one who wants me to come to Harvard. He wants to –” 

“He wants to,” she interjects. “Doesn’t mean he will. Promises don’t mean a thing, honey.” She sniffles as she takes another step toward me. 

“Adrian’s promises do. He takes them seriously.” 

“Have you met his family?” 

“Well, no. Not yet. It’s complicated, there’s logi –”

“Has he told you he loves you?” 

I hesitate, the question catching me off-guard – but that seems to be answer enough. 

“Oh, Poppy.” Even her tone’s full of pity. “He hasn’t even told you he loves you?” 

My cheeks burn, and I want to argue, but my mouth’s gone dry. 

She closes the distance between us, settling her hands on my shoulders. “Listen to me, honey.” Her nails lightly dig into my shoulders. “Save yourself the heartbreak. Go to Harvard or New York or wherever the hell else for your art stuff, but do not go anywhere for him. That boy might be promisin’ you the world right now, but he’ll never give it to you. They never do – not to girls like you.” 

Her eyes bore into mine, and I can tell this isn’t another hole she’s trying to poke. It’s not an attempt to get under my skin. 

She means every word. 

***

“You know what your mother’s boyfriend reminds me of?” Adrian asks as we step into the hotel room. He’s already tugging off his jacket, revealing the bone white Prada polo he wore to dinner. 

“What’s that?” I kick off the Louboutins, careful to place them back in the sturdy brown box they came in. 

“One of my mother’s friends used to keep two-toed sloths as pets,” he explains. “They slept most of the day, required lots of specialized care, and functioned very slowly.” He pauses. “And surprisingly volatile.” 

I don’t even have to think about it. “Yeah…that’s a pretty apt description for Rick.” 

He steps close to me, his hands finding their way around my waist. “You know, I’m starting to feel a little guilty about tonight, which is unusual for me. I don’t tend to experience guilt.” 

“Guilt? What for?” 

“Well…” He bites down on his full bottom lip, and I quell the sudden desire to reach up and take it between my teeth. “You weren’t exaggerating about your mother. She’s clearly a handful, and I did make you sit through an entire dinner with her for my own selfish reasons.” 

I swallow. 

You don’t know the half of it. 

I haven’t said a word to Adrian about the blow-out fight I had with her in the bathroom – though I’ve certainly thought about it. 

I thought about it when I returned to the table, hands shaking, and apologized for the delay. 

I thought about it as the driver took us back to the hotel, curled up together in the backseat of the rented Lincoln. 

And I’ve even thought about it now, staring up at him and unable to shake the weight of my mother’s words. 

But that’s all they are – words spoken by a woman who’s done little but turn me inside out any chance she gets, and if I speak them aloud, if I speak them to him… 

No, I won’t give her the satisfaction. 

“Don’t worry about it,” I say instead. “I’m glad she met you.”

“You know she’s wrong, don’t you?” He gazes down at me, surprisingly serious.

Though I know we’re thinking about different things, my breath catches anyway. “You think she’s wrong?” 

“Of course,” he murmurs. “She’s resentful of the things she didn’t accomplish, and now, she’s even more resentful of the things you’ll accomplish.” 

“Right.” I nod. “I know that.” 

I practically told her as much in the bathroom. 

“You don’t need her approval,” he says. “You’re beyond that now.” He leans down, presses a chaste kiss to my mouth – only for me to wind my hands around the back of his neck and tug him even closer. 

I’m not sure what I’m trying to achieve in this moment, but I need more. 

More of this. 

More of Adrian. 

I don’t want words. I don’t want promises. Right now, I want something physical enough to leave marks, something tangible I can hold up to the light and proclaim: See? This is real. This means something. 

Adrian responds in kind, molding his lips to mine and tightening his grip. His touch is nothing but pure heat licking at my hips and the dip of my waist but –

It’s still not enough. 

There’s too much space between us, so I press my front to his, intending to eliminate every millimeter of it. 

A surprised sound, something halfway between a moan and a groan, escapes him, and it spurs me on. 

More. 

My fingers fly to his shirt, to the thin fabric currently separating me from the smooth expanse of skin underneath, and I feel the energy between us. It’s alive, it’s vibrating, it’s –

His phone. 

His phone is vibrating. 

We disconnect immediately, and I only have a brief moment to savor the way his pupils seem to have swallowed up their irises before he’s fishing the device out of his pocket. 

He stares down at the screen, his mouth thinning. 

“It’s my mother,” he says quietly, and whatever remains of the mood spoils immediately. 

“Should we take her to dinner?” It’s a weak joke, but the corner of Adrian’s lip quirks up anyway. 

“Not tonight,” he says and then sighs. “She’s calling to check up on me. I’m not entirely sure she bought that I was spending the holidays at an internship.” He shoots another distasteful glance at the phone and then peers down at me, his expression softening. “We’ll finish this later. I’m going to step outside, see if I can get better service.” 

I rub the back of my neck. “Of course.” 

His parting kiss is gentle (and actually chaste this time) before he disappears through the door, but I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that we will not be finishing this tonight. 

***

The next morning, I wake to a historic event.

A text from Rick. 

Some school paper came for you.

I can’t tell which event should go down in the books – the fact that Rick’s actually texted me or that his message’s surprisingly free of grammatical errors. 

My fingers hesitate over the message box. 

This historic, once-in-a-lifetime event must be orchestrated by Mom, who clearly doesn’t want to speak to me, but isn’t spiteful enough to hang me out to dry academically. I text back:

What is it? 

Then, thinking better of it, add:

Can you send a picture of it? 

Rick’s reply is surprisingly prompt but no more enlightening: It’s on the kitchen table. 

I sigh. 

Why did I even ask? Rick’s incapable of being helpful. 

The absolute last thing I want to do is visit the trailer after last night’s showdown, but I can’t be sure the paper’s not important. 

Unfortunately, Lionswood takes a lot of pride in communicating like they’re the IRS. Emails may exist for urgent news and schedule changes that can’t wait for two to three business days, but everything else – newsletters for the academic year, quarterly grades, scalding behavioral reports – is fair game. 

For all I know, it could be an updated list of course requirements for next semester, that letter of recommendation I’ve been begging Ms. Hanson for, or any number of other important documents. 

I bite my lip, unsure what’s the bigger risk: running into Mom and Rick or being unable to graduate. 

I’m still staring down at the phone when the door swings open and Adrian strolls through, two coffees in hand. “You’re awake. Finally. I went on a coffee run.” 

I take in his sweat-drenched shirt and the heavy rise and fall of his chest. “It looks like you went on a literal coffee run.” 

He hands me the blue paper cup decorated with a logo I don’t recognize. “Only the way there,” he tells me. “I walked back for obvious reasons.” He glares down at the Apple watch strapped to his wrist. “My time’s down.” 

I take a sip and nearly sigh with pleasure when I realize it’s the robust artisanal stuff that doesn’t need to be drowned in milk and sugar. “Really?”