“An asshole with connections.” She lifts her eyebrows in that way to tell me she has years on me and knows more than I do.
“A presumptuous asshole,” I murmur.
“You’re still mad about the shoes? What woman gets mad when a man brings her a brand new pair of high heels—expensive ones at that—to replace the ones she broke? Not me. Mmm-hmm-nope.”
“Yes, I’m still mad about the shoes.” And about the note sitting atop the pale pink Jimmy Choos that said:
“See you at eight, Cinder. You’ll show.”
“I’m not a princess,” I assert.
“Mija, I’d let him call me Cinderella all night long if it were me.” She lifts her eyebrows twice for emphasis and in that split second reinforces my staunch determination not to attend the party. Or think about him. Or anything about him.
Leave it to my hopeless romantic of a mother to paint this situation into some kind of Disney fairytale. The same woman who has time and again fallen head over heels simply because she believes in love—because she loves to be in love—only to get her heart broken in the end. And even through the tears and the spoon dug into the ice cream container she’s eating directly from to deal with her misery, she’ll smile and tell me how she has no regrets because isn’t love a wonderful thing?
Too much drama. Too much feeling. Too much make believe.
And she wonders why I’m gun-shy when it comes to relationships.
“Mija?” She pulls me from my thoughts and back to the present situation: Zane, my shoes, the note. “C’mon, maybe he’s the prince you’ve been waiting for.”
“I’ve had my heart broken enough times by men that you’ve called princes.” I sigh. “No thanks.”
“You have to kiss a lot of frogs to—”
“You need help, mother.”
“At least I’m honest unlike some people,”—she points at me—“who keep pretending that his gesture wasn’t a teeny bit romantic.”
I snort. “For some reason I don’t think Zane Phillips and the word romantic belong in the same sentence.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“I’ve heard him talk long enough to know the type of guy he is, Mom.”
“And I’m telling you he tried to make up for it.”
“Why are you pushing this so hard?” I throw my hands up and she just shakes her head.
“Because . . .” She shrugs and gets the dreamy look in her eyes that tells me she’s already writing the happily ever after to Zane and my story when there isn’t even a story to begin with.
It was cute when I was eight. It made me believe my first high school love was the one, right up until my heart was crushed when I caught him kissing Shelly Dodson behind the bleachers after football practice. And now that I’m in my twenties with many failed relationships under my belt, her starry eyes and fairytale plotting only lends me to buck harder the other way when she starts it up. Because if she thinks he’s the one, her track record seems to show he most definitely isn’t.
Besides, eating gallons of ice cream and modeling don’t exactly go hand in hand.
“Leave it be, mom.”
“But what if this is fate’s way of throwing you together? He may be a very nice man. He may be swoon-worthy when he’s not being the alpha-asshole that let’s face it, we both know he is attractive and sexy and gets your blood humming.”
I shove up from the couch and pace around my small living room willing her to go home and leave me in peace. “Mom, I love that we live next door to each other. I love that we’re close and share almost everything, but that doesn’t mean I want your input twenty-four-seven. I’m a big girl who can make her own decisions. Can you respect that?”
If only I hadn’t opened the box of shoes in front of her, she would have never known any of this.
When I turn to face her, she has that miffed look on her face—eyebrows pulled tight, lips in a straight line—like I’ve just hurt her feelings. She nods her head and twists her lips but doesn’t rise from the couch and do what I’ve asked.
All I can do is sigh and wait for her to have her say. I know that’s the only way to end this conversation.
“Of course, I respect you. What I can’t figure out is if you’re mad at someone for buying you a nice gift, or if it’s because he already has you pegged as showing up for the party.”
I bite back the sarcastic response I want to give and decide on the truth. Besides, she’ll see right through a lie anyway. “How about all of the above? I mean, what man buys a woman shoes that cost twenty times more than the ones she broke if he doesn’t expect something I won’t be giving him in return?”
“You do like him though, don’t you?”
“Mother,” I warn as the starry-eyed look returns.
“When you dig your heels in on something, it means you’re fighting it . . . and baby-girl, you’re digging those brand new pink heels in just for the sake of principle.”
“Mom.” I sigh and slump back in my seat feeling defensive and at the same time confused over these thoughts she’s stirring up about Zane. “I just . . . I just don’t know.”
“Sometimes the people who make you feel all riled up inside end up lighting a fire in your heart.”
“Mom . . .”