Page 4 of Unexpected Temptation

“Sometimes I just wish you’d let me?—”

Leaping to my feet, I wave my hand, cutting Mom off. There’s no way I’m going to sit here and listen to Mom say a bunch of crazy,twisted stuff like that. Let her—and I know where it was going to go. It wasn’t going to be that she wanted me to let herlive.

“I need to check if I have any more resumés. I’ve got a shift at one. If I hurry, I can cover some ground before then.”

Mom doesn’t reply for a moment, and then she with a sigh says, “That sounds great, dear.”

It’s not very convincing, but at least she’s trying.

“Canyou work more, though?” Riley asks on the phone as I walk through the city, heading toward a salon. I know nothing about hair, but I’ll try anything.

“I don’t have the luxury of thinking like that,” I tell Riley, my best friend since high school. “Mom needs medical care. That’s all there is to it. If I had the luxury to choose, do you think I’d be a waitress?”

“I wish I could help,” Riley murmurs.

“Neither of us is rich,” I remind us.

“If I win the lottery, I’m buying us both an island.”

“I’ll sell my half.”

She laughs. “No—each, silly.”

“It’s hard even to imagine anything like that.”

“It’s my fault. I’m trying to cheer you up in the lamest way possible.”

“No, trust me. I appreciate you even trying to cheer me up.”

“Don’t say it like that,” she mutters. I can hear the tightness in her voice. Riley has always said I have an excellent ability to read people. When she was drunk once, she told me that’s why I’m so good at reading books. I know how to read the characters just like I watch people in real life. Yet, classic Riley, she didn’t remember it the next day.

“Maya?”

“I’m here,” I say as I nudge my way through the never-ending flow of foot traffic. “I’m just busy.”

“I’m not going to forget about you.”

“I don’t want to be a burden, Rye,” I say with a sigh.

“Nobodyherecalls me Rye. Anyway, I thought you hated that.”

“Hated what?”

“When people say they are burdens …”

“Ah, UNO reverse,” I grumble.

She’s got me there. I hate it when Mom says that to me, but that’s not really fair. I’m not dying.

“Listen, I need to go,” I say tiredly.

“Maya, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be stupid. Hey, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Love ya.”

I hang up. I don’t have the energy to continue our conversation, not when there’s no changing my situation.

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