Page 15 of Restore Me

He nods but says nothing as I hop out of the car. I’m acutely aware of his watchful gaze on me as I walk to my house. When I glance over my shoulder, his dark figure is barely visible, obscured by a glare caused by the streetlight slicing across his vehicle. I reach my door and wave awkwardly from inside before I close it, breathing a sigh of relief as I turn the lock and abandon my shoes by the front door.

My body is aching. The stress of the night pressing down on me until I feel ready to break. Tears spring to my eyes, and I let them fall freely as I make my way to my bedroom and turn on the light. Bright light illuminates the room, and I hear a faint squeaking of brakes ring out. I pad over to the window and open the blinds just in time to see Dominic’s tail lights as he drives down my street.

Surprised, I watch him drive away. He must have waited for me to get upstairs and turn on a light to make sure I was okay. It’s such a kind, caring thing to do. Something you do when you want a person to know they’re safe and loved. I’m not used to anyone doing things like that for me anymore. Not since Eric died.

In a moment of pure appreciation, I take my phone out of my purse and pull up his contact information. The message I send is short and does nothing to convey the riot of emotions coursing through me.

Sloane: I know you said don’t mention it, but I have to say it again. Thank you.

It isn’t until I am freshly showered, safely ensconced in my bed, and on the brink of sleep that it occurs to me he didn’t bother to text me back. Doubt trickles through me. I can’t even be sure I have the right number for him, and I don’t remember the last time I had a reason to call or text him directly.

I flip over on my stomach and close my eyes, reminding myself no matter how grateful I am for what he did tonight or how my pulse flutters when I recall the feel of his skin on mine, Dominic Alexander is not my friend.

And the fact I don’t even have the right number for him, even though we’ve known each other for years and share a slight obsession with people whose last names are Kent, proves it.

.

8

Sloane

Now

I wake for the second time on Sunday morning to the sound of my phone ringing, and my mother’s beautiful face flashing across the screen until I finally pick it up off of the nightstand and accept the call.

“Hello, Mother.”

I stifle the yawn threatening to obscure my greeting. If she catches it, she’ll launch into a long-winded lecture about me still being in bed at this time of day.

“Sloane.” The disapproving way she says my name lets me know I’ve failed. “Please tell me you’re not still in bed. It’s almost noon for goodness sake.”

It’s only a little after ten, but my mother is not to be argued with. Lauren Carson is perfection personified, which means she is well versed in identifying and pointing out everyone else’s shortcomings, especially mine.

“I’m not feeling well.” I sit up, resting my back against my headboard.

“Wallowing in bed won’t make you feel any better will it?”

There it is again. Disapproval, where there should be maternal concern or, at the very least, the kind of surface-level care you would give a stranger, but caring for another person has never been my mother’s thing.

Whenever I would get sick as a kid, she’d just pawn me off on one of the three nannies she kept on staff to take care of me. And when I would cry for her, she’d pat my head and tell me she just wasn’t suited for this part of motherhood. I spent half of my life waiting to find out which part of the endeavor that was parenting she was suited for and gave up when I was sixteen and realized the only plausible answer was none of it.

Unless criticizing your only child until they second guess every decision they’ve ever made counts, and if that’s the case, the woman belongs in someone’s hall of fame.

“No, it won’t,” I sigh. “I was just about to get up and put on some clothes.”

It’s a lie, but that’s what I do with my mother: lie to appease her and apologize when the lies aren’t good enough, and her ego has to be assuaged some other way.

“Perfect. Then you’ll come over for brunch. Your father wants to see you.”

I close my eyes and try not to focus on the way she specified my father wants to see me. Not your father and I. Not your loving parents. Not we. Just your father. It’s a testament to the unnatural dynamic between the three of us. The hands-off, narcissistic mother. The doting father who tried to fill in the gaps. And the broken only-child who let her childhood trauma ruin the best thing in her life.

“Mom, I can’t come over today. I’m having dinner with Annette and Mallory, and I’m heading over in a few to help them cook.”

Like I have every Sunday for as long as I can remember. I don’t bother to point it out though because she already knows. She just doesn’t care.

She scoffs. Scoffs. Like attending a regularly scheduled dinner with people I care for is a foreign concept to her. It probably is since the only regular appointments she has on her books are facials, massages, and lunch with the minions she calls her friends.

“Surely you can afford to miss one dinner, Sloane. It’s not like the woman is cooking anything you haven’t eaten already.”

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