Page 8 of Forgotten Dreams

She scoffs. “I’ve always been somewhat dramatic. Just not in front of him because I was being all ‘in your face, I’m a tough girl, but then I want you to push me against the wall and kiss me. And then do all kinds of dirty things to me.’”

As if he has been waiting for her to call his name—“You rang?”—Emmett pops back up behind her, wrapping one arm around her stomach and the other around the top of her chest, pulling her to him. She holds his arm with both of her hands.

“Guess who is thinking about moving?” She looks over her shoulder at him. “Sierra.” She doesn’t even give him a chance to answer. Having met Emmett a couple of times, I’m going to go out on a limb and say he has no idea nor does he actually care to play this game.

“Oh fun,” he says, saying whatever he needs to in order for her to smile.

“It’s more than fun. We can have book clubs together in the same house, and she can come over for dinner.” Her eyes light up. “We can have girls’ night at the bar.” He groans. “Isn’t that going to be fun?”

“Baby,” he says, his head going back, “it’s not going to be fun. It’s going to be the opposite of fun.” I can’t help but laugh at him. “But it’s fine.”

“See?” One hand lets go of his arm and holds his cheek. “Told you it’ll be fun.”

“I can’t wait,” he mumbles.

“Okay, I have to go,” I tell them. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“I’ll call you later,” she replies and quickly hangs up.

I spend the rest of the night working on some contracts I have going on. I’ve been a graphic designer for the past four years, graduating with a bachelor of arts degree. I got a job as soon as I graduated with a commercial real estate company. I would design all of their spaces, and slowly, I branched out doing jobs here and there on my own, building my portfolio. I went from creating brand logos to creating billboards in Times Square. When I finally had enough clients under my belt, I left, and now I work for myself. I have all types of clients, from restaurant designs to corporate companies who need brochures made. Being able to create things is the best, and I’ve been good at it since I was twelve, when my parents let me have my way with my bedroom. I thought for sure I would go into interior design, but this was much more fun for me. Sometimes I even get to do both of them at the same time. Those are my favorite projects. I have a couple of builders who have the houses all ready to go, and all I have to do is design the catalog with furniture and all.

I’m closing down my computer by 8:00 p.m., which is a new record for me this week, when the phone pings. I grab it from my desk and look down to see my mother texted me.

Mom: It’s been a while. I’m trying to give you space. Would like to hear your voice. I love you.

My heart tightens in my chest at the same time as my stomach lurches. It’s been over two weeks since I found out the truth.

I don’t know why, but I take the phone and call her instead of ignoring it. She answers after one ring. “Sierra,” she says my name as if she’s never said it before.

“Hi,” I reply, closing my eyes as I hear her softly sob.

“Um.” She clears her throat. “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” I answer softly, “just”—my own tears start now—“I needed some space.”

“I know, your father said you would call when you were ready.”

“I think we should talk,” I repeat the words my therapist has had me practicing for the last week.

“Of course, name the time and place.”

“How about we meet for coffee?” I suggest, not really wanting to go back to the house just yet. “Tomorrow morning.”

“That sounds fantastic. I’ll text you in the morning.”

“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I love you, Sierra,” she states, and I close my eyes.

“I love you too, Mom.” The minute I say the words, she cries even harder.

“I didn’t think you would ever call me that again.”

“I’m sorry I stormed out,” I tell her. “It was a shock.”

“I know.”

“We’ll talk more tomorrow,” I assure her.

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