Page 67 of Filthy Rich

“You’re flying in Friday night,” Bea says. “You can fly back Sunday morning. They can spare you for one day, and trust me. The filming crew will thank you for forcing a short break.”

Thanks to Octavia, for the first time, maybe I’ll get some answers. It’s partially because of what she said—I need to trust him enough to ask—but partially because. . .if I do blow things up, at least I’d still have her. For the first time in my life, I have something other than just the Fansees. Risking that relationship doesn’t feel quite as terrifying.

But when I start to walk away, Octavia standing in the doorway and waving, I’m suddenly struck with a moment of panic. “You should know that I’m going back to the set, but there are no kiss scenes today, and I’ll be wishing I was here.” I can’t help smiling when I see her looking sheepish.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says.

I walk back her direction, and I grab her waist, and I kiss her right on the mouth. Her little sigh, the way she leans into me, and her delicious smell all lighten my heart. “I’m sad to be leaving you.”

“Mhm,” she says.

“It’s hard to leave your girlfriend, I guess,” I whisper.

The corners of her mouth both rise exactly the same, the burned side and the smooth. Her eyes light up, and she goes up on her tiptoes. I think she’s going to kiss me back, but her head turns and she whispers in my ear instead. “I guess now I have to go back home that weekend. My boyfriend needs some support if he’s finally going to talk to Dave.”

For the first time, that prospect doesn’t seem quite so daunting.

When I do force myself to walk away, glancing back at Octavia two more times, I’m not quite as scared. Everything’s better with Octavia.

She had to define family for me, but I think I can define girlfriend for her now. It’s the person you’re happier and safer and more light-hearted with. It’s the person you want around all the time.

And I’ve finally found mine.

Chapter 16

Octavia

My mom loves me.

I really believe that.

She was never a bad mother, she just didn’t like doing it very much.

That’s why, in spite of my begging and pleas, and in spite of my dad’s longing for more children, I remained an only child. Sometimes I overhead her telling people that she wished she hadn’t had a kid. It hurt back then, but as an adult, I’ve come to understand a little more.

Some women shouldn’t have kids.

Society tells us that we all should. It says without having children, we aren’t complete. There’s something wrong with us. We’ll be sad when we’re older. For a lot of women, having kids helps them step back from selfishness and learn to care about other people more than they do themselves.

But some people, some people don’t want kids. They don’t want to let go of their own desires. They can be good people, but they just don’t want what they were stuck with. For them, kids are like an anchor dragging them down and drowning them.

My mom’s like that.

Knowing you’re an anchor isn’t really very fun.

When my mother calls, I groan a little, but it’s early enough that we haven’t even reached the store to shop yet—we still need an outfit for the album cover, because so far Bea has hated everything I like—so I answer. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”

“When are you coming back?” she asks.

I haven’t talked to her in weeks, but there’s no lead-in, no niceties. That’s just how she is. “Good to hear from you,” I say with a half-smile. “Yes, I’m loving being in LA, especially as New York’s probably getting colder and colder.”

“Well of course it’s nice in LA,” she says. “That would be like saying it’s cold in the North Pole, or it’s sunny in Iraq.”

“I have two more weeks here,” I say, even though it’s technically just one day more than a week. When I get back, it’ll be nice to have a few days that she’s not sure I’m home yet. My mom tends to ask for a lot of favors when I’m around. “We’ve recorded the songs, but we have some promotional stuff to do, we’ll have some edits to make, and we’ve got album cover photos to take.”

“Can’t they just do a little icon or something?” She coos. “A gremlin would be great. That fits your beautiful disaster theme.”

“That’s another song, Mom. Ours is gorgeous monstrosity.”

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