Page 30 of The Southern Thirst Trap

I pull back and give her a wry smile. “Enough with your Earth mama good vibes. Where’s the Singaporean nosy nana in you? Did you show up today knowing I’ll have to start making statements and naming names?” Maybe Alicia put her up to this. She was particularly interested and got me to admit that Zander is, in fact, Hendricks’s father in a call we had about this just yesterday.

Mom slides a side-eyed glance my way and tries to hide her mischievous smile. “You have to do what is best for you and Hendricks. But you also have a reckoning coming your way. Whatever you decide to do will have consequences, whether you keep the father’s identity a secret, or tell the world. I am here to be on your side.” She looks at me fully and slides a gentle finger along my cheekbone. “And give you a break. Have you been sleeping at all? If these under-eye bags get any bigger, they’ll take up more space than what’s available in an overhead bin of an airplane.”

I let out a bark of laughter and bat her hand away. “You’re horrible, but I love you.”

“I brought back some Korean beauty eye patches from this trip. You could use them.”

“I’m not above your bribery with good beauty products.” I kiss her cheek and hop up from the couch. “I’m testing out some recipes for pad see ew and green papaya salad. Come help me chop veggies and make yourself useful if you plan on staying. The Mama suite is always made up for you, but you have to earn your keep.”

“Take my bags in there and I’ll make sure you’re not making traditional food too Western. You have to make your recipes modern for your cookbooks, but I need tradition and spice, Lolo.” She rises primly from the couch and follows me out of the living room. “Those Bulgogi tacos you posted were too spicy for your own good, but not the right kind of spice. Dirty girl, I looked up that bukkake reference and had to wash my phone after.”

I cackle like a hyena and take her bag into the room that was once my childhood bedroom. It was strange to take over the primary bedroom when she let me buy the house from her so I could raise Hendricks right where I grew up. She moved into a smaller townhouse nearby and spends much of her time traveling. She is financially secure thanks to my father’s life insurance and frugal ways that allowed him to sock away much of his earnings that kept her in the manner she had grown accustomed to, being a stay-at-home mom and housewife. That translates into travel funds now.

I sit for a moment on the plush bed and stare around at the neutral decor with large green plants giving color to the modern space. My whole house has a lush green vibe, much influenced by Mom’s life living in Singapore. She has a style of her own, and I picked up on that from a young age.

Growing up with immigrant parents and of mixed race in the South was…interesting. I was teased for my uptilted eyes and the strange lunches Mom packed for me when I was young, and then for my towering height in middle school when I shot up before all the boys hit puberty.

I hated everything that made me different. My height, my coloring, my eyes, my parents who had over a foot of height difference between them, my mom, who was often thought to be a mail-order bride, my heritage, even my name which was bastardized for sport by cruel kids, and turned into Harlot Score-nson to humiliate me. Being different made me a target, and I carried so much shame for just being me. I was never comfortable in my own skin and couldn’t embrace the things that made me unique.

Modeling didn’t change that, so much as highlighted the differences as selling points. I was ethnic enough to fit many campaigns, to be the diversity inclusion to an all-white roster, and to lend an exotic edge to an otherwise homogeneous look. It also worked against me when I couldn’t fit a pigeon-holed casting call. I also couldn’t put a toe out of line for fear of being too brazen, too scandalous, and not bookable. Heaven forbid a brand would think I was too slutty, too wild, or too loud for their target audience. I made myself meek, quiet, just the right kind of model, and played the role they wanted as often as I could, and that meant I could never just beme.

I sigh deeply and pull myself up from the bed. I pick up a framed photo of Hendricks as a baby and cradle it in my hand. No use thinking about the past, even when it has lasting repercussions like little shock waves that startle you out of complacency to be reminded of the severity of the situation. Like having a child fathered by a person of interest.

What people are focusing on and the media has so wrong, as usual, is the motive behind keeping Hendricks to myself. Zander cut off all contact with me. How was I supposed to tell him he had a son when he didn’t even want to hear from me? I did my best to talk to him and let him know. All I managed to do was get my number blocked by Zander and myself banned from Olympus International Tower. That’s not at all how I thought it would end, after the way we met.

I set the picture frame gently back on the nightstand and leave the room, hoping I can leave the memories that cling to me, the frustration that prickles even now, years after I have accepted my fate and moved forward, but maybe not completely on.

But now I have to turn around and trudge upstream into the past and perhaps make Zander care about something that happened years ago. Make him care about a kid he never wanted that connects us together when he has made it quite clear there is no future for us.

I return to the kitchen, where Mom has dutifully chopped the veggies for me and set up my bowls of spices. She helps me test the recipes and makes adjustments with me, insisting on a higher spice level while I want to caramelize the noodles more.

I get her to snap a cute photo of me slurping up the pad see ew noodles, midriff bared in a crop top, that I post to Instagram with a caption about what else I can slurp and is tasty. My posts are getting thirstier by the day and my audience is eating it up. Mom says my phone is going to burst into flames if I keep going this route, but my engagement is through the roof and Alicia is thrilled with the insights, so I’m not stopping anytime soon.

eighteen

Harlowe

Five Years Ago

“I’mlate,”Isay,walking into Paloma’s room of our shared apartment, my hands shaking.

“For what? I didn’t think you had a shoot planned for another few days. Did you book something last minute and not tell me? Do you need me to drive you? LA traffic is bad, so hopefully they’ll be cool waiting,” Paloma says, immediately grabbing her phone and pulling up her GPS app, ready to input an address for directions. Ever the problem solver. Ever my best friend, ready to save my ass without even knowing my latest dilemma. I grab her arm, stopping her from grabbing her purse.

“No. Paloma, I’mlate.My period.”

“What do you mean? You’re on the pill, right? Maybe you messed up the timing and it’ll show up later today or something.”

“It’s not a few hours late. I was supposed to start two weeks ago. I’mlatelate.”

“How…” she asks, guiding me over to her bed and sitting me down. “How are you late?”

I run a hand through my hair, greasy because I haven’t washed it in days from pure apathy. I haven't felt like doing much of anything but cry and mope since I got home from the Maldives. I haven’tfeltmuch at all, actually. I don’t know if I prefer that to the soul-crushing pain of realizing Zander lied to me and ripped out my heart in the aftermath of his revelation that he could be a completely different person from the man I fell in love with and suddenly want nothing to do with me once my usefulness was expended. A fresh wave of grief and anger rises up in my gut, and I shut my eyes against the tears it brings with it. I have a new problem to deal with, and I don't think I can handle both at the same time.

“I missed a few pills on my trip, like four or five, total, and I got right back on a new pack when I got home. But, well, there was one time we didn’t use a condom, and I guess one time is all it takes, really, and now I’m late. Oh my God, Paloma, what if I’m—” Paloma puts up a hand and stops me from continuing.

“Ay, Dios. Stop, don't say it out loud or put anything into the universe you don't want to be true. It’s fine. Let’s just be calm and do what we have to in order to be sure. I’ll go get you some tests to be completely sure and we’ll figure this out together, okay? It could just be birth control weirdness. Maybe starting a new pack later than you should have threw off your cycle. That kind of thing happens all the time. It could totally be what’s going on right now. It’s going to be fine.”

“Okay, yeah, that could be it,” I agree, grasping at anything that sounds even remotely plausible.

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