Page 13 of Rock the Chardonnay

I do not remember Roger. Or Steve. Or Carson. Or any of the other nameless men she takes up with on a whim. “I imagine it’s sunny.”

“Oh right!” Hah. Like I believe that tone. That’s the same tone she used when she called the night before my first album released, and she just “happened to forget.” She asked for money then, too. “You’re on tour. How’s it going? Where are you?”

I debate lying, but there’s no point. Wherever I am, it isn’t near her, and that works for me. “Wisconsin.”

“Wisconsin?” Her voice rises an octave. It’s practically a screech. “Ugh. I never understood why you liked Wisconsin. So fucking cold. And the summers? Is it humid right now? I’ll bet it’s so humid the mosquitos stand in a big cloud to eat you alive. Atlantic City is gorgeous. The beach is right here.”

She doesn’t require a response. I leave her on speakerphone and open up my guitar case. I always set a mental ten minute timer on calls with my mom. Otherwise, I end up in bed with a migraine, or a random hookup whose name I never ask.

We all have our vices.

“Anyway, you know it’s been hard holding down a job. People are so ageist out here on the East Coast.” This means she got fired from Target. Or Wawa. I lose track of which minimum wage job she holds at which time. She goes through them faster than she goes through men. It has nothing to do with ageism, either. Appropriately, most employers frown on employees who either show up hungover or completely skip shifts. “Roger’s having it rough, too. Any chance you can float us until something new comes my way?”

At least she got to the point more quickly than usual. “I already send you something every month, Mom.” Louise told me very clearly that I am not to indulge my mom’s needy behavior. I’m supposed to have boundaries, stick to them, eat properly, and get enough sleep. I do...none of those things. “I don’t have anything left over. I couldn’t find a sublet while I’m on the road, so I’m paying rent in the sixth most expensive city in the world.” Hopefully, once the tour starts, and I have some buzz behind my name, I’ll have more money. That’s the goal. In the meantime, though, I’m nickel and diming my life yet again.

There’s something about not having money that leads me to make reckless decisions. Such as dying my hair with markers. Or getting a piercing from a friend who bought their equipment online from a discount store. Or staying with my ex-boyfriend's family in his too-nice-for-me guest cottage.

Mom scoffs. “Like it’s more expensive than New York.” Technically, she lives in New Jersey, unless she moved again and forgot to tell me. The first time that happened I was twelve and didn’t find out until she neglected to pick me up after school. The parents of my only friend at the time, Maxine, had taken pity on me and let me stay at their house while the cops found my mom. Turns out she had run off for the weekend and married number four—no, number five— of my seven stepdads and was two states away in Kentucky.

I hated the seventh grade.

“Daughtry, please. We’re blood, baby. You can’t let blood down.”

There’s no use listing the ways she lets me down. “If I come into more money, I’ll let you know. I have to go and practice, Mom. My set is tomorrow, and I have an interview to prepare for.”

“An interview?” I can almost hear her ears perk up. “Say something nice about me. I love reading about how I helped my baby girl rise to stardom.”

Ha. Hahahahahahahaha.

I inhale deeply and speak through gritted teeth. “Right. Sure. Bye, Mom.”

“Bye, baby.”

She hangs up before we reach the five minute mark. Good.

It’s impossible to focus on anything right now. Music is a double-edged sword. It’s something I love and want to do, but then it also has the potential to bring Mom back into my orbit. My knee jiggles and even my hair can’t seem to settle. I can’t get comfortable no matter what I do.

I open the dating app on my phone—fine, it’s a hook up app—and it automatically adjusts to my location. Only two potential candidates of men looking for women. One is named Rove, a scruffy, older man I vaguely recognize, and the other is Ciaran.

Why isn’t Declan on this app?

If I crane my head, I can see the driveway. Declan’s car isn’t back yet. What if he comes to the door, his hair hanging all sexy-tousled over his face? His blue eyes would be dark again, nearly the color of a bruise. What does he taste like? What would it feel like, to have his hands on me, all over me, touching all the places I need filled, even if it’s only for a few moments?

My fingers itch with want.

I set down my guitar and jump up and down to shake the jitters from my body, and my phone buzzes with an incoming text from my mom.

Ugh. My mom doesn’t belong in this lovely little guest cottage. It doesn’t belong on the Fosters’ land. I worked so hard to keep the two of them separate, to keep her from tainting this.

I never should have returned to St. Olaf.

CHAPTER 7

Declan

After relinquishing the festival wine tasting tent to one of our very capable wine gurus—a college student working with us for the summer—I hunt down Alex, and drive the pair of us back home.

I’m not sure if visitors to the tent wanted more wine or gossip. The whole afternoon, I slung both, and I’m done with it.

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