Page 88 of Muddy Messy Love

Defeated, I slump against the headboard and shoot Cole a silent sorry. Then, with a hefty inhale, I plead with the woman who birthed me. “Mum, some privacy?Please.” I motion towards the stairs. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Beneath her sweetheart neckline, Mum’s dainty shoulders tighten, and her pink-painted lips press firm. She does not respond well to being dismissed. But after a hesitant beat, sheturns for the stairs. “Well, don’t be long. Bethany offered me her bedroom, but my luggage is still in the hall, since I don’t know where that is.”

As the beehive descends, I hold back a sigh. While Beth’s house is ritzy—big it ain’t. Mum would have seen Beth’s room on her way in, but handling her own luggage is beneath her. I’m surprised it made it inside the house.

I scroll through Beth’s missed calls. They’re limited to this morning, indicating the notice was short. She would have warned me sooner otherwise, then I could have begged to stay at Cole’s—hid in the toilet—caught a train to Adelaide—anything.

I curse the ceiling. Beth was probably railroaded into this, or simply told how it would be. For a ruthless lawyer, she caves like a shaken mine when it comes to our mother, but that’s where infallible optimism gets you.

I look at Cole, and his amusement unknots my chest. “I’m sorry. I honestly had no idea she was coming. If I did, you could have evacuated for your own protection.”

Cole laughs and catches my hand, circling his finger on the pulse point of my wrist. “Is she really that bad?”

“Yes,” I hiss, but that’s the question I wrestle with constantly. Sticks and stones, after all. I frown. “And no.”

Cole’s smile falters, and it occurs to me how horrible I must seem for feeling this way. He would give anything to have his mum back, and here I sit, ungrateful and bitter with mine. “I’m sorry,” I sigh.

He cups my cheek. “Don’t be. If I understand anything, it’s anger towards a parent. In my experience, it’s rarely unfounded.”

Holding his gaze, I search his eyes, seeking everything he’s yet to tell me about his father. There’s a story there. Maybe even bigger than mine. But it will have to wait.

I drop a kiss to his cheek, drag my nose across his stubble, and breathe him in, then force myself out of bed to sling on a hoodie, yoga pants, and Ugg boots.

Mum sits on the blue velvet sofa, admiring her nails as I stomp down the steps. Swallowing my irritation, I force out a polite offer of tea.

“Yes, please. Strong with a dash of milk, one sugar. In a proper teacup, and let it brew well.”

“Sure.” I nod, holding back a “Yes, ma’am” and a salute as I make my way to the kitchen. If I let her, Mum would have me in eternal servitude. Avery, can you pass me this? Avery, can you do me this favour? Avery, can you solve every problem I create and take the wrath of my unhappiness?

Sure, Mum, sure.It never stops.

As I lean against the kitchen bench, my skin burns with scrutiny. I glance over my shoulder to find her eyeing me up and down over the rise of her nose, her posture stiff as a corpse. Ah, there it is. The infamous gaze of unfavourable judgement. It’s a specialty blend of disgust, disappointment, and shame. And one that’s had plenty of time to brew.

“You look very…comfortable,” Mum says.

I shrug. “It’s Sunday morning.” Then turn back to stir her tea. The spoon chimes against the fine paisley china, and I will my invisible shield to erupt from the earth to keep me safe. But Mum is kryptonite to my defences in a way no one else is. This will require something more.

“Given you have company, I thought you might be a little more…aware. That’s all.”

My shoulders slump as she successfully plants a cluster of paranoid thoughts in my head with one simple comment.

I’m not good enough. I look rubbish. Cole will find someone better—more refined—less…me.

You can know my mother’s game, but remaining unaffected is an entirely different challenge. One I’m yet to conquer.

“I’ll shower and change soon,” I say, scanning over my hoodie to ensure it’s at least stain-free. It is.

Mum chuckles a breathy laugh. “Well, at least they match your hair, I suppose.”

Strike two. In the space of ten minutes. I think she’s gotten better at this. Or I’ve grown accustomed to not facing criticism every day. Either way, tension knots in my chest. I rub my fist against it, trying to ease the ache, but it’s no use. Mum doesn’t just get under my skin; she seeps into every organ, muscle, and cell of my body like a lethal poison. A vaccine against inner peace.

I set Mum’s steaming teacup down on the side table next to her. She mutters a thank-you as I drop to the sofa opposite and assume my defaultMumposition—arms crossed over my heart, leaning back as far as the cushions will allow. I arch a brow. “Mrs. Wilson?”

Mum swallows a sip of tea and tightens her lips.

Silence.

I narrow my gaze. “You aren’t going to tell me? It sounds like I have a new stepdad. Surely I should know.”

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