Page 42 of Barely Breathing

The elevator rises, and with it comes the weight of what awaits. Two mothers, two worlds, and me caught eternally between them.

“Astrid’s home,” I warn as the elevator comes to a stop.

“I assumed she might be.” Lorelai’s tone carries an edge. I don’t pry. Being as I’m the result of her affair with Astrid’s husband, it’s already awkward.

“My father is away,” I add.

Yep. Awkward.

The elevator doors open, stopping her from answering.

We step into the penthouse foyer, and I notice it no longer smells like a carnival. Hopefully, that means Astrid will be in a better mood.

Hopefully, but probably not.

I hear voices from the kitchen. This is a bad idea.

“Maybe we should go—” I start to say, but it’s too late.

Astrid emerges from the kitchen, stopping when she sees us. Her gaze focuses on Lorelai, and herexpression barely registers a change. Her emotionless tone, however, could freeze hell. “Lorelai.”

“It’s nice to see you again, Astrid,” Lorelai answers politely. I wouldn’t say there is gratitude in her demeanor, but there seems to be a silent acknowledgment that she knows who actually raised her daughter. “You look well.”

Astrid turns to me, and I see her gaze moving over my face before dipping to the floor. I have witnessed all moods of the woman, but there is a flicker in her expression I’ve never seen before. Sadness? Regret? It’s so hard to tell. I’ve never had a warm relationship with my mother, but she is still the only mother I’ve had most of my life. Seeing my birth mother in her home can’t be pleasant.

The silence stretches like a rubber band about to snap. I stand between them, still struggling with how to reconcile these two realities—the cold, precise mother who raised me and this warm stranger who shares my curls. After decades of Astrid’s calculated distance, Lorelai’s open affection feels almost overwhelming. A few months isn’t enough for me to know how to navigate my feelings. And this being the first time I’ve been in the same room with both of them… Well, I have no clue how the hell I’m supposed to deal with this.

I’m caught between these two versions of motherhood, astutely aware of their apparent differences.Astrid in her tailored suit, every hair in place, while Lorelai’s wild curls escape her scarf in artistic disarray.

Astrid is the mother who stayed. She wasn’t loving or affectionate, but she was here. She gave me the skills I needed to survive as a mortal amongst supernaturals, even if I’m only starting to understand why she kept the truth from me all these years.

Then there is Lorelai, who exudes warmth, but she left because, as a mortal, she couldn’t protect me. I touch the amulet at my throat, drawing comfort from its existence. Lorelai bartered with trolls to get the amulet. When my grandfather gave it to me, he never mentioned where it came from.

As different as these women are, they both tried to keep me safe in their own ways.

“I know it’s early. We won’t be long,” I tell Astrid.

“Nonsense.” Ever the proper hostess, Astrid motions toward a couch, inviting Lorelai in from the foyer. “May I offer a drink? Tea? Coffee?”

“Tea,” Lorelai says. “Thank you.”

Astrid’s perfect posture never wavers. She nods and leaves for the kitchen.

I sink into a chair. Lorelai sits across from me, crossing her legs to twitch her foot nervously in the air. I want nothing more than to curl into a ball and close my eyes. I think of Costin in his bed. The rising sun will keep him locked in his home.

Well, in all honesty, he probably has secret tunnels all over the city where the sunlight won’t touch him. I look at the windows where the sun is starting to shift the color of the sky. I can’t imagine living in his land of darkness, never seeing daylight for an eternity.

“I appreciate the hospitality,” Lorelai says carefully.

I turn to see Astrid rejoining us. A servant follows her, carrying a tray toward Lorelai, and offers her a porcelain tea cup on a saucer. The waif of a woman is new to the household. She walks quietly, placing her feet like a dancer. She comes to me and offers me a coffee. I take it, grateful. Finally, she brings a coffee to Astrid, who sits on the opposite end of the couch away from Lorelai.

The forced civility feels wrong, but I don’t fight it. I sense the weight of unspoken history between them. It can’t be easy for Astrid to face her husband’s mistress and, conversely, for Lorelai to face the woman who raised her daughter.

Lorelai takes a polite sip of her tea before setting the cup and saucer on the end table beside her. “I came because I was worried about Tamara. The protection altar I built?—”

“Yes, your altar of human charms.” Astrid’s lips thin slightly. “I remember your unconventional methods.”

“They worked, didn’t they?” Lorelai’s hand drifts to her butterfly tattoo and directs her attention to me. “The amulet protected you.”

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