Page 11 of Synced to Us

“Hey, sweetie.”

My steps to the elevator slow. “Ma. Everything okay?”

“Yes, yes, fine. Not all of my calls need to be prefaced with deep-seated terror, you know.”

“What can I say, you have that effect on me,” I joke, but my heart hangs heavy in my chest.

“Don’t be sassy. I’m only calling to see if this is the weekend when I finally get to see you.”

My gaze shifts to the ceiling. “I don’t know, Ma. I’m really busy. I have studio time booked and me and the guys are thinking about writing new music…”

“Oh, that’s great, honey. Is the band getting back together?”

“Maybe soon.” I rub at the scruff on my chin. Hard.

“That’s just lovely. I’m so happy for you. You’ve put so much effort into reuniting those boys.”

“Yeah,” I say, but it comes out as grit. I push the DOWN button, tapping my foot as I wait.

“One of the greatest moments I’d love to witness before I go is you back on that stage.”

“Don’t talk like that, Ma.” My chin will be rubbed raw by the time I make to Dee’s building. “You’ve got plenty of years left in you.”

“You’re right,” she says, but there’s no inflection to her voice. “I’m not calling about that, anyway. I wanted—well, my priority is to get you up here to see me, of course, but I had to let you know the bank’s been calling and—”

“I got it.”

“I’m so sorry, darling. Bradford offered to pay this month since you’re no longer depositing as regularly, but I couldn’t impose on him. He and Lucy have the twins, and they’re so strained with him on a teacher’s salary and her being laid off…”

The mention of my brother makes my skin itch. No doubt his empty offer to our mother will be accompanied by a communication along the lines of “Can’t the famous rock star pay our mother’s mortgage with the stadiums he should be filling?” or some other bullshittery. “You’ve already refinanced her house twice. What more do you want to do to our poor Ma, Winston? Have her move into a government-funded nursing home? Make her a cute little box on the sidewalk?”

The thought has me cracking my neck. Twice. “You don’t have to worry. I said I can do it.”

“Are you sure, sweetheart? I’ve been sensing some difficulties on your end.”

Thank you, sweet Jesus, for opening the elevator doors. “I’m actually heading to a meeting with a financial lady right now. She’ll help me budget this stuff, Ma. I can make sure you’re comfortable.”

Mom blows out a breath that echoes through the speaker. I hold the door open before I step in, predicting this isn’t the moment I should end the call. “Winston, you’re not doing what I think you are, are you?”

“She’s just a bank person. Nothing more.”

“I don’t like this idea of you putting your funds in someone else’s hands.”

Really, because just last month you asked me to wire enough to Brad to manage your bills. I bite down on the retort. Ma’s concerns are real, and after what our family endured, I can’t stomach being responsible for even a whisper of worry on her part.

“She’s a friend of McKenna’s,” I supply, one foot hanging over the elevator’s threshold. “It’s a consult, is all.”

“Oh, that sweet girl. How is she holding up? They must be over the moon with their first child. I know Bradford was when he and Lucy were first expecting. They’re all so in love. You deserve that, too, Winston. I wish it more than the world. Now that your band is doing better, have you been able to find someone—”

An alarm sounds from the elevator.

“Gotta go, Ma, the elevator’s bitching at me.”

“Call me back, dear. Or better yet, come visit this weekend. Bradford and his family are here, too, and I’d love it if we could all be together. Why don’t you bring a date? You never bring girls home and it’s starting to worry me—”

“What’s that? You’re breaking up. I can’t—hold on—the elevator’s—”

I hang up and step forward, the door snaking shut.

---