Page 19 of The Americana Playbook

“I very wellwouldmind,” I snap.

I’m not sure what I’m more annoyed about—the fact that I’ve been calledma’amtwo dozen times in ten minutes or that this female agent has the audacity to ask tofriskme.

I turn to Madeline. “You already made me leave my phone in the car. Is the pat down necessary?”

We both fling our heads to the double doors when they open.

“Oh, for god’s sake. Just let her in.”

Miss. Congeniality backs off at my mother’s order. It doesn’t even matter that she’s First Lady. Candice Montgomery could get a pit bull to drop a lamb chop with a simple, well-to-do scolding.

“Come in, darling.”

I wince.

Madeline enters the suite before me and sits on a couch. She motions for me to join her, but I don’t want to, which is wild considering there used to be a time when I was so in love with Madeline that I’d call for her in the middle of the night if I were scared of a sweeping shadow.

“Maddy!”

The shriek I hear in my head—the way my own voice pierces my ears—is different though. When I screamed her name likethat, I wasn’t seven and afraid of a ghost. I was seventeen and afraid for mylife.

Inside my boots, I curl my toes, trying to anchor myself into the plush carpet, as my eyes flit around the suite. The decor here reminds me of my mother, of the two grand sitting rooms in Captain’s Cottage I was only allowed in when invited. More often than not, it was for an interview.

Parker, what’s something you want America to know about your father?

My answer as a kid is far different than my answer now.

He’s a monster.

And if they asked me now about my mother?

She’s even worse.

I eye the fresh flowers on the coffee table. There’s another vase on the sideboard by the dining table. And another in the corner. Lilies have always been my mother’s favorite. It doesn’t surprise me to find them wherever she is.

“Who died?”

It’s a question Honey would never miss the opportunity to ask. Anytime she walked into a room at Captain’s Cottage and found a vase of lilies, she’d ask why my mother was so keen on turning the house into a funeral parlor. Honey never hid her distaste for anyone, not these kinds of flowers or her daughter-in-law.

“You’ve always looked like your grandmother. I see now you’re taking after her too,” Mom sneers before drifting her eyes up and down my body. “Though, I guess style-wise, you continue to be the captain of your own ship.”

I look down at my jeans. “I can’t stay very long, so go ahead and tell me why you made me come here.”

“Made you?” Mom laughs. “What goes on in that head of yours, Parker? No one forced you here. No one is holding you against your will.”

“You have before,” I remind her.

That’s the reason I’m here, looking at the woman I know is my mother, but who feels like the furthest thing from it.

“This is nothing but your own doing, Parker. You got yourself here. If you had just”—Mom twists her mouth in frustration—“if you had just...”

Followed the program.

Trusted the process.

Stopped fighting it.

These were all things that were repeatedly said to me over the course of my time at Horizons. The promise of home would be dangled in front of my face, like it was something I had to earn instead of my right.

---