Page 41 of Weather Girl

“I hate to take you away from all of this,” I say. He just gives me this look, and I struggle to hold in a laugh.

Something changed between us last night, and whether we’re simply closer friends or poised on the verge of something more, it fills me with a buzzing energy I haven’t felt in a long time.

As he rolls his suitcase from the lobby to the car, Torrance gives me a subtle lift of her eyebrows. I glance away quickly.

The only hint at last night’s tension during the drive home is when the audiobook I narrowly avoided on the way up starts playing as soon as I plug my phone in to charge.

“He bent down to worship at the altar of her thighs. God help him, he was going to pleasure her tonight until both of them saw stars—”

“Please kill me,” I say, scrambling one-handed for my phone.

“Oh, uh—did you want to listen to an audiobook?”

I shut it off. “Nope. I do not.”

Though he laughs, I don’t miss the pink tint to his cheeks.

The trip home is pleasant enough, and here’s the Russell I’ve grown accustomed to over the past few weeks. Sure, we talk a little about Elodie, and about other topics we wouldn’t have been as open about during our first few meetings. But I want the Russell from last night, the one I can no longer pretend I don’t have feelings for, even if that still terrifies me.

I’ve never dated someone with a kid, and while of course he’s an independent person, capable of making his own decisions, Elodie changes things. After all, he said she’s the reason he hasn’t dated for a while.

Five years. Of course, that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s been five years since he last had sex with someone. But it could... and I can’t say I wouldn’t love to be the person who ends that dry spell. Every so often, I glance at his hands on the steering wheel and remember them on my skin last night. If we slept together, I’d want to see him completely give in. Surrender. The opposite of the measured way he unbuttoned my shirt, unhooked my bra.

An out-of-control Russell, one with his glasses askew and mouth swollen and fingers making imprints above my hips. Jacket tossed in a heap on the floor. A Russell who asks permission with a whispered plea in my ear. Begging me to undo him. To wreck him.

Once he leaves after helping me bring my bags inside, I take a cold, cold shower.

When that doesn’t work, I become very grateful I can move all the fingers on my dominant hand.

•••

I TAKE THE next day off work to see a doctor, who confirms the elbow fracture with another X-ray. I sign up for physical therapy and grocery deliveries and a credit card with rideshare rewards points, since it’ll be about a month before I can safely drive again.

And then I spend far too much time picking out what to wear to see my mother.

“You didn’t have to throw yourself down a staircase to get out of this,” Alex says when he picks me up.

“Shut it, you.” I readjust my sling, and he reaches over to help me with the seatbelt. “I want to see her.”

It’s half true, at least, and I’m hoping for the other half on the drive to the hospital.

It would take a whole fleet of masseuses to work out the anxiety coiled tight in my body. I’m not sure what I’m expecting her to look like after nearly six months apart, if she’ll be exactly as I remember her, or if I’ll be able to tell, just by looking at her, that something’s different.

I know this isn’t going to be easy. My mom could drag me down better than Garrison, better than any of the guys I tried to project a positive front for. And she was the reason I did it. The reason I pretended to be sunshine, the reason I said everything was okay when nothing was.

Because our father couldn’t handle her darkness, and I couldn’t let that happen to me.

I won’t let her comment on my appearance or my career or my relationship status. I told Alex he could let her know Garrison and I broke up, but she doesn’t know the reason why, and I won’t let her needle me about it.

By the time we arrive, I’ve stuck and unstuck the Velcro on my sling so many times that it’s no longer tacky in certain places.

The hospital is a newer building downtown. After we check in at the front desk and go through a metal detector, a nurse leads us to a bright, cheery room filled with paintings donated by a local artist, all the tables empty except for the one Amelia Abrams is sitting at.

She cut her hair. That’s the first thing I notice. Alex, our dad, and I were a trio of redheads, our blond mom the odd one out. She took such pride in it—it was damaged beyond belief and she was always dyeing out the grays, but it was long and mostly blond and that was what mattered to her. She never wanted to look old, she told us, as though looking your age was some kind of punishment. When I got haircuts, she’d always say, “Not too short!” Like if I lost my hair or had too little of it, I’d be losing some of my value.

Now my mother’s light hair is trimmed to just above her shoulders, shorter than mine, in a style that’s not completely modern yet not outdated. It’s cute—that’s what it is. And her grays have grown out a bit, but she doesn’t look old. Not the way she was always fearful of, at least. What she looks is tired.

“Hey there, Alex. Arielle,” she says as we join her at the table. My full name, used so infrequently these days, yanks me back in time.

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