Page 93 of Muddy Messy Love

“I see,” Mum says, adjusting the fall of her sunshine dress so it spills evenly over her crossed knees. “You think you’re all mature now you’re screwing your wealthy boss? Well, you can delude yourself all you like, Avery Lee, but we both know this fling with Cole is temporary. I imagine you’re merely flavour of the month. Every successful man slums it at least once, and a leopard doesn’t change her spots.”

A gasp bursts free from my mouth as her words reach into my torso and steal my essence. I bolt to my feet with clenched fists as tears spring to my eyes, blurring Mum’s face. She’s zeroed in on my weak spot like a skilled assassin does their mark, and she knows it.

Satisfaction curls up the corners of her mouth, causing fire to rise up my spine. My heart thumps violently but traps my voice. There’s so much I want to say. Perfect, witty, biting words that will form and haunt me later. But right now, my throat is seized, and my mind is frozen.

For a beautiful second, I imagine smashing that flipping teacup to the floor at her feet. But it’s Beth’s teacup and Beth’s floor—Beth’s velvet sofa—and I don’t want to prove Mum right. So, instead, with a quivering bottom lip clamped between my teeth, I charge for the studio, slam the door shut, flip the lock, and slide down the wall like splattered slime.

My breaths heave. In, out. In, out. In, out. Faster. Faster. Faster. And bony knees cradle my forehead as I grip my tangled hair, choking on tears. The emotional tornado is too much to contain, too confusing to sort, and too fast to process. I’m atits complete mercy and can only hang on for the ride as it rips through me and pray it passes—pray I survive.

I crawl across the studio floor, drag my patchwork cushion closer, and bury my face. Tears bleed into the silk, and my hip bone protests as it digs into the hard floor, but I don’t care. Pain that makes sense is my friend.

I fight for steady breaths, and eventually, they slow down until nothing remains but eerie silence and an empty shell. I slide my phone out of my hoodie pocket and shoot Beth a text. Only three words long but perfect in their truth.

I hate her.

But guilt drowns me as soon as I hit send, and every kind thing Mum’s ever done for me flashes through the ether—pink-tinged and blurry at the edges like a vintage Hallmark film.

Fuck.

She’s right. I am the monster.

Hours later, the flopped vase spins around and round, parading its derangement as if to taunt me. I growl at the pottery wheel and hit the off switch. It’s my seventh failed attempt, but my head and heart simply aren’t in it. How can they be when they’re sifting through every conflicting childhood memory?

“It’s meant to be like riding a fucking bike,” I grumble as I slice the mangled clay from the wheel and launch it across the room with a frustrated grunt. It thuds against the door, then splats to the floor.

There. Perfect. I’ll pop it in the kiln like that as a representation of what Mum does to people. Hopefully, it explodes. That’ll capture it even better.

With a deep inhale, I close my eyes and do what the school counsellor once taught me: I imagine a safe place in nature where I can calm down. I choose a tranquil teal lagoon surrounded by rainforest and rocks. A gentle breeze kisses my skin, and dappled sunlight warms it. I step into the water and visualise it dissolving all my worries. It doesn’t work, but the long-awaited sound of the bathroom door latching brings a wave of relief, and I bolt from the studio, starving. I was starting to think the woman had a catheter inserted.

Raiding the fridge, I grab a bottle of water and the tub of yoghurt, then race back to my studio unseen. Fuck the spoon. A carving tool will work. While I love the mezzanine, it’s times like this I wish I had a bedroom door like most people. One with a lock.

The toilet flushes next door, and I hold my breath, waiting for Mum’s footsteps to pass by and fade, but they stop too soon. A knock sounds on my door. “Avery, can I speak to you?”

There’s no pretending I’m not in here. I could ignore her, but that would only antagonise. Why didn’t I crank the music like I told Cole I would? That would have provided plausible deniability. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

Begrudgingly, I walk to the door and open it to the width of my Ugg boot. She doesn’t deserve to see my sanctuary. “What is it?”

“Can I come in?” Before I respond, Mum pushes against the door, but I hold it steady.

“No.”

Mum sighs. “I obviously upset you earlier.”

I raise a brow without a word. She doesn’t need me to confirm that for her.

“I apologise,” she says, and as the foreign words pass through her lips, I fight to keep my eyes from boggling. I scan her face with a frown, looking for the catch. Averting her gaze, she smooths the back of her beehive with one hand. “I’m tired frommy trip. Things haven’t been easy the past few weeks, and I forgot how sensitive you are.”

Me. Sensitive.Of course, it’s my sensitivity—not her words.

“I’m not upset because I’m sensitive,” I say quietly. “I’m upset because you were mean.”

Her chin nudges higher, and her sharp eyes dart back to mine. “You are too sensitive, Avery Lee. You can’t deny that. Anyway, I’ve apologised, and whether or not you like it, we’ll be living together for months, so we must reach—”

I cut her off. “Months? That long?” My life force fades.

Please, no.

“Yes. So we’ll have to learn how to get along.”

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