“You’re exaggerating,” she huffs out, and I open the door in time to see her cheeks at peak brightness.
“You’re so cute when you get angry, Mom.” I pull her into my arms and kiss her on the cheek. “I’m going to meet Ashleigh soon, but when I get home, I can tell you about my new project if you want. And maybe we can binge whatever show sounds good on HGTV if you’re up for it?”
She hugs me back and her eyes go soft. “I’m always up for spending time with my favorite girl.”
When I was in LA, I was in LA. I didn’t come home to visit as much as I should have. My mom has a borderline phobia of flying, so they only came to California two or three times, and every time, my mom needed a full day of recovery to come out of her Xanax fog. I created a community in LA that I was really proud of. We had Friendsgiving every year and created a family away from family, but being home, I can’t deny how much I’ve missed them.
How much I’ve missed the comfort of being around people who know everything about me and love me unconditionally. I give my mom a hard time, but being here and connecting with her as an adult has been the brightest spot of this entire ordeal.
“Don’t forget to put lipstick on before you go this time.” She breaks the moment with such effectiveness it’s almost impressive. “And maybe let your curls breathe today. A bun for this long can’t be good for your hair.”
“All righty then, this was fun while it lasted.” I pull out of her arms and hurry into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.
Then I let my curls breathe and put on lipstick like my mom told me to do.
* * *
? ? ?
I’ll never admit it to any of my supercool, trendy millennial Los Angeles friends, but there’s nothing I love more than a chain restaurant.
Sure, a small, local-owned, organic, vegan bakery is lovely. But you know what else is great? Southwestern egg rolls and a frozen margarita from Chili’s.
“We should do this more often.” I dip my egg roll into the avocado ranch before taking a larger-than-ladylike bite. “Oh, yum.”
Chili’s always freaking hits!
I groan as I chew; my shoulders shimmy and bounce along to the Top 40 pop hit playing quietly on the overhead speakers.
“Now that you’re ‘properly fed and boozed’?”—Ashleigh’s use of air quotes is the only thing more passive-aggressive than her deep sighs and discreet eye rolls as I inspected the menu—“are you going to tell me what happened last night?”
My stomach twists a little—but not enough to deter me from the food at hand—as I think back on last night. I don’t know if it’s from nerves, excitement, or fear, but I do know I can’t tell her everything. Something passed between Nate and me as we confided in each other, and as much as I’ve grown to like Ashleigh, I can’t give her what she wants in this moment.
“Nothing really.” I trace the tile design on the table to avoid her all-knowing eyes. “We talked for a little bit, caught up on a few things, then I went home.”
“Oh really?” she snaps. “Is that all? You talked, caught up, did a little bit of nothing in his empty house until after midnight?”
“Okay. You know I love you, Ash.” Yes, we’ve moved into nickname territory. You could say things are getting pretty serious between the two of us. “But I’m really struggling to take you seriously in that dress. You look like a kindergarten teacher who’s starting her own YouTube channel.”
Instead of wearing a pair of her ridiculous leggings, she stepped out of her home—into public—in a truly unhinged sundress. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a cute dress . . . for a child. There’s a mix of flowers, geometric shapes, and primary colors. I don’t know who the designer is, but I really believe it was not supposed to exceed toddler sizes.
“Well, figure it out, because you’re feeding me crumbs, and as your campaign manager, I demand to know more.” She picks up the unsweetened iced tea she ordered and glares at me over the rim of the mug. “This is unacceptable!”
“While I understand your thirst for good gossip, I really don’t have any.” I feel a tinge of guilt for lying to her, but not much since for once, I know my heart is in the right place. “We talked about things and caught up. It was actually kind of nice. I forgot that he’s not always a giant douchebag.”
In normal circumstances, I’d love nothing more than to spread gossip about Nate. However, as low as I claim to go, sharing what he told me about his ex is crossing a line—even for me. Now, if I had witnessed the extensive khaki collection I know he owns or walked in on him kissing a neighbor? I’d share in a heartbeat.
Also, after I got home and started writing, the annoying HOA president took a turn for the sexy. As dialogue flowed out of me, it became harder and harder to separate the fictional hero in my script from the man down the street. Traits of Nate’s that worked my nerves only days ago seemed so appealing on paper. It’s as if a lifetime of suppressed feelings are spilling out of me and I only have one person to blame . . .
Or thank.
“I know you’re holding something back, but I guess I’ll let it slide this once,” she grumbles before snatching an egg roll off my plate. “No.” She aims a polished nail complete with glitter and rhinestones at me before I can object. “If you won’t feed me gossip, you have to feed me egg rolls. It’s in the bylaws.”
She chomps down and arches an eyebrow as if daring me to argue.
“If it’s the law, then what can I do about it?” Plus, she ordered a Caesar salad with no croutons. She deserves a taste of happiness.
“Exactly, nothing.”
We both finish our food, me with gusto, Ashleigh with obligation, and are waiting for our check when Ashleigh’s phone begins to vibrate with notification after notification.
“Sheesh.” I look at the influx of notifications lighting up her phone. “Popular much?”
I deleted pretty much all the apps off my phone after my life blew up. Getting tagged in different versions and hot takes of your lowest moment is not the good time you might assume. Now the only things on my phone are Words with Friends and Candy Crush. I have the home screen of a sixty-five-year-old and I’m okay with it.
“This is so weird.” She unlocks her phone and starts to tap around. “Angela never texts me. And she tagged me in the HOA Facebook group?”
I’m draining the remaining drops of my margarita as she investigates this mystery when the familiar chords that have haunted my dreams for the last two months cut through the noise around us.
“What is . . .” Her words trail off as understanding dawns on her face.
I watch in abject horror as the color drains from Ashleigh’s rosy cheeks. I don’t have to see the video to know what she’s seeing. Every frame, every second from the video is scorched into my mind. The humiliation I was beginning to put behind me rushes to the surface and I worry everything I’ve eaten is going to make a sudden reappearance. I don’t wait for her to say anything; all I know is that I can’t stay.