Page 87 of Smooth Sailing

I thought he’d be at the gym or playing a round of golf, but his reply was immediate.

Wednesday good for you?

It warmed my cockles (and I didn’t even know I had cockles) that he texted back quickly and wanted to get together soon.

But I had to ask Hugger about that too. Though, since Dad and I were both under biker protection, I assumed it would be okay.

I need to check something, but I think so. I’ll confirm soon.

I then realized I’d forgotten my father’s bent at control and his need to form an opinion so he could voice it, the power of this urge so strong, he’d even do this when the focus should be on us figuring out where we were at with things.

I remembered when he returned, Feel free to bring your boyfriend.

I just knew that would bite me in the ass.

I didn’t share he wasn’t my boyfriend (as such…hmm).

I replied, I’ll talk to him.

Gak!

I’d barely sent my last when I got a text from my mother.

And that was when Armageddon struck full force.

The text said, Hey sweetie! I’m going to be in town to do some shopping! Pick me up at the airport Friday around two. We’ll go to Fashion Square and have a fun dinner and then spend the weekend decimating Rick’s bank account.

Rick, by the by, was her husband, who I did not refer to as my stepdad. Ever.

To which I responded, Hey Mom. Did you already buy your tickets?

And got back, Yes! It’s all set! Girl’s weekend!

I had to sit with that a minute (okay, it took five of them), tamping down the feelings I sometimes (okay, often) got when my mom entered the picture of my life.

I loved her. She was fun and had lived almost her entire life without responsibility (like me, she was an only child, but Gram and Gramps went the opposite way with that than Dad did for me—that being spoiling her kind of bad).

Spending time with someone who was carefree with nothing dragging on it felt freeing.

For a while.

But I did have responsibilities.

And as much as I didn’t want to get ticked at my mom, the fact she didn’t ask before buying her tickets, and she expected me to be at the airport at a time when I’d be at work, not to mention, expected me to play chauffeur at all (she didn’t drive in the city, “It rattles my nerves!”), I had to admit, bugged me.

However, this time, I simply couldn’t be at her beck and call when she got the hankering to spend time with her daughter (or spend time at the designer boutiques at Fashion Square where I could act as her chauffer, travel guide and bag handler, and it sometimes felt that was what I was and that sometimes (okay, often) hurt).

So I had to say, I’m sorry, I can’t Mom. I have plans next weekend.

To which I received, More important than a visit with your mother?

At this point, I glanced at Big Petey, who was in the other corner of the couch. He’d taken off his boots, his stocking feet were on my coffee table, and he was watching old episodes of My Cat from Hell (I got this; Jackson Galaxy was the bomb-diggity).

I went back to my phone. Yes. I have a friend who needs me.

And I need some time with my daughter.

Oh crap.

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