Page 47 of Getting Over You

I hear her sigh. “But this time I’m occupied with someone else. I just don’t want you to miss me too much.”

“Trust me,” I say. “I’m fine.”

She wanders into the living room, sitting next to me on the couch, full wineglass in hand. When I raise my eyebrows, Belinda says, “I need a drink to calm my nerves.”

“How are you feeling about this guy?” I ask. If she’s going to share her dating life with me, I might as well humor her enough to inquire.

“I really enjoy his company,” she says as she situates on her cushion, legs pulled up under her. “He’s funny. He listens. It’s been nice.”

“I’m glad,” I say, and I really mean it.

I want her to be happy. As hard as she is to understand, to get along with, to relate with, I’d love to see a world where my mother has a life that fills her with joy—so she’ll leave my life alone.

She sips her wine. “I have enjoyed having you here,” she says. “I haven’t said it, but having you in my day-to-day has been… welcome.”

“Thank you for allowing a long visit,” I say. “I know you’re busy.”

She nods. “You’re my daughter, Gigi.”

“You say that a lot,” I tell her.

“Being your mom is the title I’m most proud of.”

From anyone else, this would tug on my heartstrings, maybe spring a few tears. Not Belinda.

I’m feeling frustrated tonight. At Belinda. At Cade. At the universe. I say, “You aren’t my mom. I mean, I don’t consider you my mom. You keep… You keep calling yourself my mom, my mother. But you’re not.”

She halts. “Don’t be ridiculous, Gigi.”

Just as quickly as it bubbles up, my nerve is shot. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It’s just… frustrating. Back at home, Greta is mom. It gets confusing.”

“Don’t let that bother you,” Belinda says, her shoulders dropping. She lets out a breath she must have been holding hostage, waiting for me to say whatever it was I needed to. “I’m your mom, sugar. And I always will be.” Satisfied with her pep talk, she stands, rubs her free hand on her long black jumpsuit. “I should get going. I’m meeting Damon soon.”

“Damon,” I repeat. “That’s his name?”

Belinda nods. “He’s extremely handsome. He makes me feel so beautiful. It’swonderful.”

Whatever this man must be slipping her on their dates is working, because she’s acting like a new woman.

I can’t shake how I’m feeling about her. Even as she leaves, giving me a soft pink-lipstick kiss on the forehead, I feel upset. I want her to be happy, to have things that bring her joy. But herquips at my expense, her inability to see anyone’s perspective but her own… It’s exhausting.

I call my mom, because she will know exactly what to say. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say weakly. I can hear the breaking in my voice, feel the pressure of my throat closing. “I’m okay.”

“What happened?”

“Belinda did,” I whimper.

“Gigi.” A warning tone. My mom will be here in a matter of hours if it means saving me.

“I need to vent,” I say. “I’m venting.”

I tell Mom about all of this. Belinda roping me into working for her but not paying me, me being too scared to confront her.

Then the doorbell rings.

“Do you mind if we pick this up later?” I ask Mom. “Someone’s here.”

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