My jaw falls to the floor and I just stare at her, blinking rapidly for I don’t even know how long.
“You mean to tell me you haven’t had an orgasm, self or man-made, in three years?”
“I mean, I’ve had a few. But I had a cheating fiancé and then I was single, scorned, and had a toddler. What do you expect?”
Oh dear lord almighty. No wonder my poor friend is so uptight.
“You poor, poor woman.” I climb out of my covers and crawl across my bed to hug her. “I mean, we’re basically already sister wives.”
Her eyes go wide and she starts to pull away.
“Not that!” I push her away when I realize what she’s thinking. “I meant”—I try to force out the words through my laughter—“I was going to order you some toys!”
We’re doubled over on my bed laughing when my phone rings. And not just any ringtone, the obnoxious one. The one I set for the even more obnoxious person on the other end.
My laughter ends abruptly.
“Fuck,” I whisper. Thankfully Lauren is still laughing and doesn’t hear me. “Hold on.” I gesture to Lauren to be quiet before sliding my finger across the screen. “Hey, Mom.”
“Oh good, you answered for once,” she greets, and it’s almost laughable.
If there’s one person I always answer for, it’s Juliette Andrews.
And not because I actually want to talk to her.
God no.
Whenever her name appears on my screen, my stomach falls to my feet and tension weaves its way through my veins until I feel almost paralyzed with anxiety.
“Anyway,” she continues, and my nerves threaten to claw out my insides as I wait to hear what she needs this time. “I’m driving to your house. I know you’re probably still in bed, so get up and dressed. I don’t want to wait.”
“You’re driving over? Now?” I look at Lauren, and the horror I’m feeling is not at all reflected in my best friend. Instead, she’s all smiles and anticipation and joy.
If she only knew.
“Yes.” I can almost hear my mom’s eyes rolling through the phone, like I’m the one out of line and not her for just casually dropping by on a Sunday. “And please, don’t wear workout clothes today. We’re going to brunch, not the gym.”
Then my phone beeps in my ear, signaling the end of the conversation.
“Your mom’s coming over?” Lauren asks, even though she already knows the answer.
“We’re going to brunch.” I don’t look at her as I sign into my bank account and check my balance, trying to think of how many more Instagram posts I can commit to. I know who’ll be paying for unlimited mimosas . . . and it won’t be the person who insisted on brunch.
“That’ll be fun. Plus, waffles and bacon make everything better, especially hangovers.”
Lauren was with my family any chance her mom let her out of the house when we were kids. She loves my mom. Which, who can blame her? My mom was a blast. She shot to fame on a soap opera in the eighties, the golden era of soaps. But that didn’t mean she ever neglected being a mom. She was the best mom ever.
Was.
Then my dad died.
And somehow, so did my mom. She became a stranger.
But nobody knows that. Not even Lauren.
“Don’t forget the mimosas!” I try to hide my dread under fake peppiness as I peel the covers off me and slip out of bed. “You know they make them with vodka now? Hair of the dog, baby!”
Even though I don’t look at her as I make my way to the bathroom, I can still feel her concerned gaze burning a hole through my back.
I turn the lock on the door and flip on the harsh bathroom lights. I can’t even be bothered to hide my flinch when I see my reflection in the mirror.
Besides the mascara smudges surrounding my eyes because I was too drunk to be worried about my skin-care routine, they’re also bloodshot and swollen. But that’s not from last night. That’s from the built-up tears I’ve been fighting since I saw my mom’s name on my phone.
The sundress I was too unbothered to take off last night billows to the floor at my ankles along with my lacy underwear, and I step into the shower. I crank the handle all the way to hot and stand beneath the showerhead, bracing for what’s coming.
The freezing water is a shock to my system, but I love it.
I need it.
My teeth chatter as the water transforms into needles threading through my skin, trying to sew on a costume of a daughter who loves her mom.
Then the water starts to heat and I brace.
When the scalding water attacks my skin, I welcome it. I stare at my skin, watching as it becomes so red, I wonder if I’ll start bleeding soon. I don’t turn down the heat until my skin becomes almost numb to it. It’s what I was waiting for. The reminder that it doesn’t matter where the pain comes from, eventually, I’ll become numb.
Even to my mom.
Scratch that.
Especially to my mom.
SEVEN
• • •
Jude
For someone with so many financial troubles, Juliette Andrews sure does portray an image of wealth. From the red bottoms on her feet, to the emblem on her red convertible, to the fresh highlights in her hair that probably could’ve paid for the water bill I covered last month.
But fake it until you make it, I guess.
Or, more accurately, fake it until you make it again, or cry to your daughter until she covers all of your expenses for you . . . again.
“Here.” My mom passes a tube of lip gloss across the table. “Put this on.”
“Really, Mom?” My eyelid starts to twitch. Not constantly rolling my eyes when I’m near my mom is an ocular workout. But it’s better than the hair I was pulling out when all of this started. “We’re eating. It’s going to come off.”
“It already did come off, which is why you need more.” She shoves the tube into my hand. “And if you would’ve listened when I told you to put on lipstick, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now, would we?”
That’s when it clicks.
The smile frozen on her face. The dress code. Ordering the smallest plate possible and still not taking a bite. Her manager covering our bill. The request for a patio seat even though it’s cloudy and looks like it might rain.
I groan and snatch the sunglasses out of my purse. “Please tell me you didn’t call the paparazzi again.”