A Harmless Little Game (Harmless #1)
By: Meli Raine
“Does Jane want to see me?” I’m more blunt than I should be. The morning’s craziness infused me with a sense of boldness. Maybe I don’t need to read everyone and conform to their expectations of me.
What if, instead, the world had to shape itself around what I want?
That idea is scary. Wouldn’t it be great to have that kind of power?
Anya looks shocked at my words. “Of course she does, Lindsay. She always liked you.”
Liked.
I smile. “I’d love to see her. I never got the chance to thank her.”
Anya’s face softens with compassion. “You never, ever need to thank her for that. My God, honey. She just did what any decent person would do.”
Any decent person.
Right.
Like...Drew?
Oh. Wait. Drew didn’t do anything.
Scratch Drew off the Decent Person List.
“Still...” I say, dipping my head in that way people do when they’re showing humility. “I can’t wait to catch up with her.”
Right answer. Anya’s face spreads into a relaxed smile. She reaches out and squeezes my wrist with a warmth any mother should possess. “Great,” she says. ”Two o’clock at The Toast.”
I jolt slightly. The Toast. Our old coffee shop hangout. I haven’t thought about that place in years. Frankly, The Island had fabulous coffee and of all the things I longed for, coffee wasn’t one.
The Toast was a total hippie dive shop, the kind of place that had vegan muffins forty years before being vegan was popular. They have an ancient espresso machine that looks like something out of the kid’s movie, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. We used to go slumming there when we were in high school and thought it was funny to hang out with the aging hippies.
Now, though, I think I’d really feel comfortable there, because no one ever judged me when I sat alone at a table and just drank coffee while I stared out a window.
The whole not being judged aspect is more appealing than the coffee.
“Sounds good. Do you have Jane’s number in case I need to call if there’s a problem?”
Anya points to the phone in my hand. “It’s already programmed in there.”
By the time I verify that she’s right, she’s down the hall and in her office again.
And I’m left holding yet more evidence that my entire life is programmed.
Whether I like it or not.
“Hey! Another bulletproof coffee?” Connie asks, turning the corner and carrying a small basket of fresh herbs. I learned this morning, as I came in from my disastrous run, that she has continued the tradition of the chef’s herb garden. Mom insisted on that when I was a kid. Speaking of Mom...
Where the hell is she?
I shake my head. “No. Thanks. A little too much if I have two a day,” I say with a smile. I lean on the kitchen island and ask in a conspirator’s voice, “Have you seen my mom today?”
Connie’s eyes widen. There’s a calculation there. She’s trying to decide how much to tell me. My heart tightens with cynicism.
She’s one of them, I remind myself. No one in this household is on my side.
Sometimes, not even me.
“Monica is supposed to be home sometime this afternoon. There was some charity committee she had to serve on, and it went on for longer than expected.”
I smile. “You mean her chemical peel caused more skin reddening than expected.”
Connie blushes and looks at me with her mouth slightly agape.
“It’s all code, Connie. I know my mom. If Daddy’s gearing up for a new campaign, Mom’s trying to lose weight, defy gravity, and turn back the clock. This is how it works.”
Connie just nods, her fingers worrying the sprigs of herbs.
I notice she doesn’t say anything more, though. I wonder where Daddy found her. She feels like she’s half CIA, half Cordon Bleu.
That’s probably about right.
I look at the clock. 11:11 a.m. If I were on the island, I’d be in group therapy right now. Lunch at noon. Water aerobics at 1 p.m. I know the schedule and am trying hard to forget it. This is my life now. I’m home.
And I have a two o’clock coffee date with an old friend.
My phone rings, startling me. I swipe and the phone screen says it’s my mother.
I close my eyes, lean against the counter, and brace myself.
“SWEETIIIIEEEEEEEEEE,” she gushes into the phone. “My darling is back!” Monica Bosworth is a stereotype of a stereotype. I would have to say that at least half of my therapy sessions over the past four years have been about her. You would think that those hours would have been spent processing the gang rape, but no.
They were spent processing my mother’s reaction to the event.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, forcing a smile.
“‘Hi, Mom’? My daughter finally comes home and ‘Hi, Mom’ is all she can manage? You’re so understated, Lindsay! You should be shopping! Celebrating! Ooooo, we should have a party!” she adds, breathless with possibility. Her voice changes, going low. “But a quiet one. Nothing that triggers press coverage, of course.”