Page 157 of Perfect Pitch

More clicking on the other end of the line. “He said he was waiting for you. He’s on it.”

I blink slowly. “Did my uncle just track my mother for you?”

The next thing you know, I’m getting a screenshot of their conversation.

Fallon:

Thanks, Ethan. Austyn’s worried.

Ethan:

She’s my sister. I’m concerned too.

Ethan:

Besides, it’s not like it was hard, Fal.

Before I can remark on how comfortable Ethan is with Fallon, she encourages, “You should call your mother.”

I waver. “Do you think so?”

“Let her know how worried about her you are. Maybe she thinks you’re siding with your father because you were there,” Fallon reminds me.

“Crap, do you think so?”

“Who knows? I’ve never seen Paige in love.”

In love. In love. The words reverberate in my head. As quickly as I’ve been falling for Mitch, my mother’s been falling for my father all over again. If I didn’t feel like such crap, I’d slap myself in the forehead. “Fal, you’re amazing.”

“Call your mother, Austyn. Then call me back.”

Then my best friend hangs up on me.

I immediately dial her cell phone. I’m so shocked when she answers that the first words out of my mouth are, “What the ever-loving hell is wrong with you, Mama?”

Her voice comes out as cold as ice when she replies, “What a lovely greeting.”

“If Uncle E hadn’t tracked your phone, I’d have thought you were dead! This isn’t who we are.”

“What isn’t who we are, Austyn?”

I rant about how irresponsible it was for her not to return my calls until she breaks in with, “Austyn Melissa Kensington, did you leave me an actual voice message to indicate there was an emergency?”

The air crackles between us before I reply sullenly, “No, ma’am.”

“Then you might excuse me for not responding when I’m, oh, I don’t know, settling in at a new job.” It’s a cop-out, and we both know it. Just seeing my number pop up on her phone would have guaranteed me a call back before this nonsense with my father and Erzulie hit the media.

“That’s not the reason you didn’t call me back. You just didn’t want me to lecture you about possibly making the worst mistake of your life. You need to talk to Dad, Mama. Please, if only for me. Just talk to him.” I get woozy as soon as the words are out of my mouth.

I just called Beckett Miller Dad.

To my mother.

For the first time.

I don’t know how long I hold the phone to my ear, waiting for her to respond—to say something. Anything. But when she speaks, her words slash through me as easily as a feral bear’s would. She rasps, “It’s every mother’s hope their child never lives through the same pain they experience.”

“Mama...”

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