Page 139 of Not That Into You

My breath gets caught in my throat. What? I hold up my hand while shaking my head. “No. You do not get to say that.”

“But it’s true.”

“No.” I can’t stop shaking my head. “When push came to shove, you threw me over for someone who could help your career, someone people expected you to be with.” I take a shaky breath. “That’s not love, Cameron. That’s convenience.”

Chapter 38

Monica

“Mom, get out of the kitchen.”

“Nica,” she huffs. “Stop hovering. The doctor said I should take short walks. I’m walking around the kitchen.”

“Yes, but you need to keep your back straight.”

She glares at me. “So?”

“So, I saw that. You were about to bend down and open the spice drawer.”

She scoffs before shuffling toward the sink. “I was just going to get some water.”

I roll my eyes. Does she think I’m stupid? “I’ll get you some water. Go sit in the family room.”

“I can get my own water.”

I grit my teeth. “Ma. Please.”

“Fine.” She slowly makes her way over to the couch, grumbling the entire way.

“Back straight!” I yell after her.

When I walk into the family room, I hand her a glass of water.

She scowls at me. “When are you going back to New York?”

“Not soon enough,” I mutter.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I go back into the kitchen and clear some counterspace, moving a large vase bursting with bright pink, yellow, and orange roses, carnations, and gerbera daisies. Cameron outdid himself. The flowers arrived for my mother the day after her surgery, and the delighted smile on her face eased some of the lingering hurt from Cameron’s actions.

I pull out ingredients to make soup.

“Make sure to use enough ginger!” my mom calls from the couch.

And fish sauce, I mouth at the same time she adds, “And fish sauce!”

“Yes, Mama.” I barely keep the frustration out of my voice.

It’s been almost a week since her surgery, but it feels as if it’s been months. My mother has been doing well, but she’s tired and in pain, which hasn’t helped her mood or improved my patience, especially since my father had to return to work.

He should be home soon, however, which will be a welcome relief. In typical fashion, he takes my mom’s moods in stride without reacting or letting her do anything she shouldn’t be doing.

A half hour later, the soup is simmering on the stovetop, and my mom has fallen asleep in front of the TV, propped up and buffered by pillows to keep her back straight.

I hear my dad’s truck pull into the driveway moments before he comes into the kitchen through the garage. I hold a finger up to my lips. “Mom’s asleep.”

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