“Maybe Oakley is just following his mommy’s example,” remarks the female host with spiky pink hair. “Because obviously Katrina Ford herself has no problems canoodling outside nightclubs. This pic was taken in London last night.”
A picture of my mom locking lips with some silver fox flashes on the screen. I turn off the TV before the commentary kicks in. I’m less concerned about Mom’s London shenanigans and more concerned about the fact that she’s back in LA.
And she didn’t even bother calling me.
Crap, or maybe she did, I realize a second later when I check my phone to discover a missed call from Mom’s LA number. I forgot I put my phone on silent during the conference at Diamond.
I hit the button to return the call then sit through at least ten rings before my mother’s voice chirps in my ear.
“Hi, baby!”
“Hey, Mom. When’d you get back in town?”
“This morning.” There’s a flurry of noise in the background, what sounds like loud hammering and the whir of power tools. “Hold on a second, sweetheart. I’m going upstairs because I can barely hear you. I’m having renovations done on the main floor.”
Again? I swear, that woman renovates her Malibu beach house every other month.
“Okay, I can hear you now. Anyway, I called to make sure you’re still planning to make an appearance at the charity benefit that the studio is hosting this weekend.”
My jaw stiffens. I guess it’s too much to hope that she called to actually talk to her only son.
“What’s the charity again?” I ask woodenly.
“Hmmm, I don’t remember. Cruelty against animals, maybe? No, I think it’s for cancer research.” Mom pauses. “No, that’s not right, either. It definitely has something to do with animals.”
I’m not gonna lie—my mother is an airhead.
She’s not dumb or anything. She can memorize a hundred-page script in less than a day. And when she’s passionate about something, she throws her whole heart and soul into it. Except the thing is...she’s passionate about the dumbest shit. Shoes. Redecorating the multimillion-dollar house she got in the divorce. Whatever new fad diet is making the rounds.
Katrina Ford was the queen of rom coms, vivacious and drop-dead gorgeous, but truth is, she doesn’t have much substance. She’s not winning any Mother of the Year awards, either, but I’m used to living in the background of her self-absorbed bubble.
It’s not like my dad is any better. Mom at least remembers to call me. Sometimes. Dustin Ford is too busy being an Academy Award-winning actor to remember he has a son.
“And sweetheart, please don’t bring a date,” Mom is saying. “If you show up with some girl on your arm, all the focus will be on that and not the charity we’re trying to raise money for.”
The charity whose name and purpose she doesn’t even know.
“I’ll get Bitsy to text you the details. I expect at least an hour of your time.”
“Sure, whatever you want, Mom.”
“That’s my boy.” She pauses again. “Have you spoken to your father lately?”
“Not for a few months,” I admit. “Last I heard, he was in Hawaii with Chloe.”
“Which one is Chloe again? The one with the boob job or the one with the botched Botox?”
“I honestly don’t remember.” Ever since my parents’ divorce two years ago, my father’s love life has been a revolving door of surgically enhanced women. Hell, that was his life even before the divorce.
Hence the divorce.
“Well, when you do speak to him, tell him there’s a box of his stuff that’s been sitting in the foyer closet for almost a year, and if he or one of his people doesn’t pick it up soon, I’m going to burn it in the fire pit out back.”
“Why don’t you tell him yourself?” I grumble.
“Oh, baby, you know your father and I only speak through our lawyers—and mine is out of town at the moment. So be a good boy, Oak, and pass along that message to Dusty.” Her voice goes muffled for a second. “Absolutely not!” she calls to someone who isn’t me. “That paneling must be preserved!” Mom’s voice gets clearer again. “Oakley, baby, I have to go. These contractors are trying to destroy my house! I’ll see you this weekend.”
She hangs up without saying goodbye.
The silence in the house makes my skin itch. Without Luke and his merry band of leeches, the place feels like a museum. I flick on the television again and crank up the sound.
Great. Now I’m pretending I’m not alone by turning the TV volume up. Mindlessly, I watch a bunch of shows about jacking up cars until I can’t stand the stupid manufactured drama. Hits too close to home, I guess. I grab my phone, and my finger hovers over the screen. I could ask Tyrese to call one of those girls who just want to touch Oakley Ford. That’d be good for an hour or two. I could light up a joint. Drink myself into a stupor. Or I could just go to bed. Because if I’m trying to turn over a new leaf, like I promised Jim, none of those other options fit with the plan.
I turn the television off. In the front room, Tyrese is sitting in an oversize armchair, flipping through something on his phone.
“I’m going to bed.”
“You are?” He looks up in surprise. It’s barely ten. “Alone?”
“Yeah. I’m supposed to be a good boy now. Can’t be having honeys over when I’m preparing to romance another girl, right?”
Tyrese shrugs. “I guess not. But Big D’s the family man, not me.”
And we both know where Big D is right now. Not out at the club picking up a random chick. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Night, brother.”
“Night.”
6
HER
I’m up at dawn the next morning despite getting almost no sleep. In the kitchen, Paisley is in her usual zombie-like precaffeinated state with a buttered bagel on the table and a half-filled coffeepot in her hand. I grab the pot from her before she crashes it into the side of the refrigerator. My sister can’t function without her caffeine fix.
After our parents died, I started drinking the foul stuff with her. It’s part of my routine now, but I always dilute it with milk. Paisley calls my coffee half and half. Half coffee, half milk.
“I heard you get up at three,” she mumbles as she takes a seat at the glass-topped breakfast table. “You okay?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” I dump out the tap water and pull a pitcher of water from the fridge. “You seriously think this is the right thing to do?” I ask as I pour the water into the coffeemaker’s reservoir and scoop out fresh grounds into the filter. “I kept obsessing about it last night, and it’s not the fake-dating thing that gets me—” I’m a champion at pretending “—it’s the length of time. An entire year, Paisley?”
I take a seat next to her and rip off a piece of her bagel.