Page 29 of Wished

Ha. Funny.

“It wouldn’t work out,” I tell her. “You’d end up firing me.”

She shrugs. “You never know. It’s better work than door-to-door solicitation.”

“No, thank you.” As much as I’d like my job back, now isn’t the time. “I hate to ask this, but can I please use your phone? I have to call my mom.”

Dorene taps her finger against the rim of her mug and considers my pleading expression. I know her well enough to realize she’s leaning toward no. She has the same forehead wrinkle she gets right before I ask her if she’d like to watch a movie made after 2000.

“Please?” I clasp my hands in front of me, giving her my most pitiful expression. “Just a quick call. To my mom.”

She slams the door.

But then, before I can turn around, she opens the door again and holds up her phone.

“On speaker,” she says. “I’m not letting this phone out of my hands.”

I nod. “Thank you. Thank you.”

I tap in my mom’s number and hit speaker. I let out a relieved breath when she answers.

“Hello?”

I lean close to the phone, ignoring Dorene’s critical gaze.

“Mom. It’s Anna. Where are you? Are you okay? Where’s Emme?”

My mom lets out a laugh. “Good morning to you too. Nothing’s changed since last night. Emme and I are still in Saint-Tropez. It’s tomorrow that we’re taking the day trip to Monaco. Did you forget? This afternoon she’s painting the boats?—”

“Wait. You’re in Saint-Tropez?”

My mom and Emme are in the French Riviera? Emme’s wish came true?

“Well, you and Max sent us here, didn’t you? What a gift! Three months in our very own villa on the water.”

Dorene snorts and then gives me a longer, more considering look.

Suddenly my limbs feel floaty and my skin has a strange, buzzy tingle. My mouth is dry when I ask my mom, “Me and Max?”

“Mm-hmm. How is my favorite son-in-law?”

“Son-in-law?” I mouth silently.Son-in-law.

Oh gosh.

The breakfast lady, the handyman, the gardener, the woman in the kitchen, and now ... my mom.

It’s done. I did it. There’s no refuting it. Somehow I wished Max and I married.

“Anna?” my mom asks.

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t ...” I swallow. “How long have we been married?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten your anniversary. Seven years, isn’t it? I know I told you I thought you were getting married too young, but you proved me wrong.”

There’s the sound of my sister then, calling for my mom to come help her reach a glass in the cupboard.

“I have to go,” my mom says. “Give Max a hug for me.”

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