Page 5 of Twisted Collide

“Where the hell were you?”

Chills race down my spine. I’ve never heard her speak this loudly—and certainly not at this hour. I wouldn’t be surprised if the neighbors could hear her. I pull my shoulders back, readying myself for the tongue-lashing I’m about to get.

“Mom—”

“Don’tMomme. I asked you a question.”

And just like that, Mom reminds me that, in her eyes, I’m a constant disappointment.

“I’m twenty-two years old—”

Her hand flies up, and the words I’m about to say die on my tongue.

“Stop right there, young lady. I don’t care if you are twenty-two or thirty-two. This is my house. My rules are law, and coming home at six o’clock in the morning is not allowed in my home.”

For the millionth time since I moved back home, I curse the job market. This is the hardest part of this setup. In college, I got used to being on my own—not having a curfew or my mother to track my every move.

“You knew the rules when you decided to move back in. Right?” she asks, but she knows I know the answer.

We’ve had this conversation many times. Practically once a week. But Mom is the queen of rhetorical questions.

“I mean, as soon as I find a job, I won’t be able to go out anymore, so I just figured . . .”

“And when exactly will that be?” She arches a brow in challenge.

I cross my arms in front of my chest. “Well, without experience, it’s hard.”

Her jaw tightens. She looks like a cartoon character ready to explode. “And when exactly do you plan to do that?”

My brows knit together. “Get experience?”

“Yes. That. Because I’m having a hard time believing you’re trying. I haven’t seen you do anything that remotely looks like you are even attempting to get a job.”

I release a long sigh. This again. She says this every day, and every day, nothing changes. I’m trying. I am. I’ve emailed over one hundred résumés and contacted a recruiter, but nothing has panned out. I’m told the same thing every time—you need experience.

But how am I supposed to get it when nobody wants to give me the opportunity?

“No one wants to hire me. I don’t know what to tell you, Mom.”

She’s quiet for a second, most likely taking in what she deems as my lame excuse, then she shakes her head.

“It’s enough. No more.” She throws her hands up. “I’m done.”

This is typical of her. She excels at drama.

“What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean, Josie. You come and go as if you have no responsibility. You don’t work. You act like you’re still in college. You aren’t even trying to find a job.” I open my mouth, but she shakes her head. “No. I don’t want to hear any more of your excuses.”

Finally, she sits, only to begin drumming her fingers on the woven armrest. I feel like I should do something, but I’m frozen in place, waiting for her to throw down the gauntlet of whatever she plans to say to me.

I bite my lower lip. Right now isn’t the time to speak, but I’m finding it hard not to stand up for myself. Maybe if I give myself a little pain, I’ll be able to refrain from angering her even more. The pressure of my teeth isn’t enough to break the skin, but it’s enough to keep me from saying something I’ll regret.

“I saw it.”

Her words pierce the veil of my pity party.

“You saw what?”

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