“Hey!” I jerked up in bed. “What the hell?” I asked, because I had no idea why my ass was stinging.
“Get up!”
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and peered up at my mother at the end of the bed. She grabbed the sheet and yanked it off of me. Thank God I had my basketball shorts on.
Her pink lips were pressed tight in disapproval, and her hands sat on her hips.
“Did you just slap me on the ass?” I pissed and moaned, falling back onto the bed and throwing my arm over my eyes.
“Get up!” she barked again.
Normally, I enjoyed seeing my mom. She was a lot of fun, and she was a pretty decent parent actually. She and my father each remarried fairly quickly, and I hated that she had moved away. Her new husband lived in New Orleans. But asking a kid to leave his home and everything he’d known was too much. I stayed with my father and his new wife.
Bright idea, that was.
I sighed. “I was sleeping. Why are you even here?” My exasperated tone told her everything.
I just wanted to be left alone.
“Your father called and told me what happened.”
“Nothing happened,” I lied, keeping my bored expression focused on the ceiling. Headlights from a car outside flashed across the ceiling in the dimly lit room, and I knew that I’d slept all day.
I heard my mother’s heels clunk, clunk, clunk across the wooden floor. “Get up!” she urged again, and the next thing I knew she was swatting me with a magazine.
I brought up my arms and legs to shield me. “Damn, woman!”
She fired the magazine across the room, tucked her long blond hair behind her ear and stomped toward my closet.
“And I fired Brittany,” she bit out over her shoulder.
“Who’s Brittany?”
“The housekeeper you’re bedding. Now get up and shower.” She threw clean jeans and a T-shirt at me and walked out of the room.
I shook my head at nothing, amazed with the women in my life.
Complete ballbusters.
I flipped over, burying my face in my pillow.
“Now!” She thundered from somewhere downstairs, and I punched my pillow in aggravation.
But I got up. If I didn’t, she’d be in with a bucket of cold water next.
After I’d showered and dressed, she took me to a quiet Italian place that was big on candles and Frank Sinatra. I ordered one of their pizzas, and my mother nibbled some pasta with olive oil.
“Why did Dad call you?” I asked, sitting back in the chair with my hands locked behind my head.
“Because he hasn’t seen any transactions on his credit card other than to the gas station. You’ve probably consumed nothing except Doritos and Fanta for weeks now. And he knew you’d rather see me than him, so . . .”
That was about right. I didn’t like to eat alone, so I snacked, and I was too pissed off right now to be sociable. Gas station food it was, then.
And I damn well didn’t want to see anyone, but my mom was preferable to my dad.
“Did he tell you . . .”—I lowered my voice—“that he’s getting married?” I didn’t want to upset my mom in case she didn’t know, so I tried to keep my tone gentle. I’d also heard that his current wife was suing for our house—my house—and it made me sick.
“Yes, he told me.” She nodded, taking a sip of her white wine. “And I’m happy for him, Madoc.”
“Happy?” I sneered. “How can you be happy? He cheated on you with her. It’s been going on for years.”
Her eyes dropped for a split second, and she placed her hands in the lap of her white pencil skirt. I took in a breath but immediately felt like dropping the argument. I was a dick.
“I’m happy, Madoc.” She straightened her shoulders and looked at me. “It still hurts that he could do that to me, but I have a wonderful husband, a healthy and smart son, and a life that I love. Why am I going to waste my time being mad at your dad when I wouldn’t change anything in my life?” She offered a small but genuine smile. “And believe it or not, your father loves Katherine. She and I will never go on shopping trips,” she joked, “but he loves her, which is okay with me. It’s time to move on.”
Did she think I wasn’t doing that? I may not be firing on all cylinders at the moment, and I may be missing my friends like crazy, but my father was right. Distance and perspective. I was working on it.
She picked up her fork, digging into her meal again. “He also told me what happened with Fallon.”
“Let’s not talk about her.” I picked up a piece of pizza and stuffed a bite into my mouth.
“You deleted your Facebook and Twitter accounts,” she scolded, “and you’re holed up in an empty house. Why don’t you just come and spend the last six weeks of summer with me?”
“Because I’m fine,” I burst out, my mouth full. “I am. I’m getting an early start here, making friends, and I’m planning to take a look at the soccer team at Notre Dame.”
“Madoc—” she tried, but I interrupted.
“I’m fine,” I maintained, my voice even. “Everything’s fine.”
And I continued to tell her that every day when she regularly texted me to check in, every time she called, and every time she made Addie come and check on me.
For the rest of the summer, I was fine.