Page 54 of One Pucking Chance

ANNALISE

My mother looks so frail. She’s always been a slender woman without an ounce of extra fat on her frame, but now, she looks skeletal. She wears a stocking cap and is covered in blankets as she sleeps in the chair beside me.Breakfast at Tiffany’s, one of her favorite movies, plays on the big screen TV in my parents’ theater room, but I muted the sound when she dozed off. I’m drowning in overwhelm and crave the silence.

I replay the past several months in my mind, trying to figure out where I missed the signs. Both of my parents blame me for not noticing, for being too involved in my own life to care enough to realize that my mother’s breast cancer had returned. The thing is—I do care, so very deeply. Yet when the two people who are supposed to love me more than anyone else tell me that it’s my fault, I can’t help but question everything.

Adding fuel to the fire is the fact that I don’t know how sick she is. It’s impossible to tell. This isn’t our first time through it. Years ago, when she was first diagnosed, she appeared the same—skeletal and deathly ill. Yet she recovered and went into remission. Physical appearances aren’t a stable enough predictor. I need to find a way to speak to the doctor or get a peek at her records. Neither of my parents has given me much information as to the status of the cancer and the effectiveness of the treatment. Just like always, my mother is very private.

My mother has always been the most gorgeous woman in any room she’s been in. She’s stunning, the epitome of beauty. Seeing her like this makes me feel ill. The woman sleeping beside me doesn’t even resemble the one I know.

I leave the movie playing on mute and situate the blankets around her—tucking them in at her sides before quietly exiting the room. I need air. My parents’ mansion, despite the obnoxious square footage, has always seemed stuffy. It’s hard for me to draw in a full breath here, always has been.

The mature thing to do would be to locate my phone and get some work done. There are probably dozens of missed texts, calls, and emails from my agent, Miranda, and Jaden. When my mother’s sick, it feels like my world stops spinning. I’ve never been good at regulating my emotions. Miranda thinks it’s because my parents never gave me a safe space to express various feelings. In fact, emotional displays of any kind were highly discouraged. But at twenty-six, playing the blame game seems wrong. Sometimes I think my parents are right, and the problem is me. Maybe I’m just broken.

I step outside on the back patio. This has always been my favorite part of the property. The landscape team has created a serene space with so much beautiful foliage. I love the sound of the waterfall that empties into the pool. If I ignore the massive building behind me, I can almost pretend I’m relaxing in some tropical getaway far away from the negativity of this home.

The tranquil facade crumbles when my father’s voice cuts through the air. “You left your mother alone?”

“She’s sleeping.”

He huffs. “Well, what if she wakes up and needs something? You won’t be there.”

“I was just stretching my legs for a minute. I’m going back.”

“You said that you wanted to spend time with her. So I sent the nurse away. Now, you leave her by herself?”

I sigh. “Dad, I do want to spend time with her, and I have been. I’m going right back.”

“Annalise. You’re an adult, and if I can’t count on you to do the things you say you’re going to do…”

“I’m going back.” I raise my voice in frustration and immediately regret it.

My father takes several steps until he’s face-to-face with me. His eyes bulge like they do when he’s angry. “Do not raise your voice to me.” Spittle flies from his mouth. “You’re the one who abandoned your mother when she needed you. You do not get to take an attitude with me.”

I take a step back, and tears fill my eyes. “I told you. I didn’t know she was sick. No one told me. How was I supposed to know? I tried calling Mom, but she never picked up, and when she did, she told me she was too busy to talk. You were in Michigan and didn’t tell me.”

“Oh, you mean that time you ran out of dinner to go be with that lowlife? Was I supposed to yell it across the restaurant as you retreated? Scream to your back? You didn’t answer my calls or return to your hotel or trailer that night, so should I have sent a carrier pigeon to deliver the news?” he snaps.

When I think rationally, I know he wasn’t going to tell me that night. He was there in an attempt to put things in motion so I wouldn’t embarrass him. He had no intention of informing me that my mother was sick while Simon was sitting at the table with us. He would’ve never shared such intimate information in front of Simon. In my heart, I know this to be true. Yet he’s so good at casting doubt and making me question my actions. Was he planning on telling me that night when he came to my trailer? Is it my fault that my mother struggled with this vicious disease for another month without her daughter at her side?

He continues, “To think that the woman who gave you life was suffering while you were out embarrassing yourself with that man.”

“I wasn’t embarrassing myself,” I say in a low voice, defeated.

“No? Then just me and your mother?” he quips and hands me a folder I didn’t notice he was holding.

“What’s this?” I hold the manila folder in my hand, afraid to open it.

“Open it and find out.”

My hands shake as I open the folder. If my father is eager for me to see the contents, they can’t be good. The first piece of paper is a mug shot. The man looks to be in his fifties, and while I don’t know him, he looks familiar. There are two more mug shots of another man and a woman. Confused, I continue flipping through the stack of papers. While I’m uncertain who is in the first three photos, my heart drops when I see who is in the rest of the photos because I’d know him anywhere.

My heart hammers in my chest, and tears roll down my cheeks as I see one picture after the next of Jaden with other women—each photo a new woman.

I raise my gaze to meet my father’s. “Need it explained?” he sneers and rocks back on his heels. “The first mug shot is of Mr. Lewis’s father, who is currently serving twenty years in prison for sexual assault. The next two mug shots are his grandparents, also in prison for attempting to rob a bank. The rest are obviously of Mr. Lewis with various women. He’s making a mockery of you and this family. The man you chose to go public with comes from a long line of criminals. He is a disgusting whore and a complete waste of space. His only attribute is that he can hit a puck with a stick, and you think he’s worthy to date a Sterling? Do you really hate us that much?”

“I don’t hate you.” I swallow the lump in my throat.

“Then explain to me why the first man who you go public with, the man who you show up all over the tabloids with his tongue down your throat, was him? Just look at him.” He smacks the pictures out of my hands, and they fall to the floor. “He should be the last man on earth you’d choose, so I can’t help but think you did this just to spite us, just to hurt your dying mother. I thought I knew you, Annalise, but you are such a disappointment. This is low. Even for you.”

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