Page 99 of Miles Apart
I love him.
I’ve been on my phone all morning, responding to his texts about him missing me.
Miles
Might go to the ER.
Why? Are you hurt?
Miles
Dick won’t go down after that performance.
My snort morphs into a cackle.Idiot.
Last night’s video call included me taking a dildo while a jeweled anal trainer was inside me. Miles lasted thirty seconds before coming in his pants. He loves Bernadette, but there’s a new star in town.
Miles
How is she?
My eyes roll.
Deloris is fine.
Miles
Excuse you. That’s Deloris Van Cartier.
It’s too early to be cracking up over nonsense. Only Miles would name my ass after Whoopi’sSister Actcharacter. It’s so random, and it borders on blasphemy, but that’s him.
“I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” I say to the potted plant next to me on the couch. It’s a “love fern,” one Miles swears will grow if it hears good vibrations. I waited for him to play the Marky Mark song when he brought it home, but he scoffed and walked off.
Smiles have taken up residence with Miles. Life is funnier, lighter.
I settle back on the couch with my coffee and the ocean’s soundtrack. Sunlight stretches across the living room, electrifying the gold accents in the room. Justice is coming over soon to work remotely while Terrence trains his client. I’ve been scaling back in the office where I can, so she and I can spend time together while she’s in California.
My phone rings on the kitchen counter. Probably Jay saying she’s on her way.
I stall when I see the incoming call from my mother. My hand slips over my hair in a high ponytail as I set down my mug to answer. “Hello?” The letters run into each other in a scramble to understand why she’s calling.
“Could you please come out?”
“You’re outside? My house?”
“Emma, I did not fly all this way to answer questions from a public sidewalk.” My mother restrains herself from scolding me but can’t mask her frustration. She sighs. “Please, sweetheart.”
Someone died. It’s the only explanation why she’s here.
Juliette Douglass does not waste outfits on unnecessary travel, and she never says please or calls me sweetheart. Ever. Death or an apocalypse are more likely, and I’m not sure she’d visit me before the world ended.
I slip on Miles’s slides by the front door and clomp out to the main gate. I’d have an easier time walking in shoeboxes. The man has boats for feet.
My mother adjusts her vintage Chanel purse, which is hanging over a black sheath dress that screams funeral.
“Who died?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She waves me off but stops herself from walking into my house. Her fingers flex before they reach for me and brush the tops of my shoulders. I frown as her face moves toward me before she reroutes for a pat on my back and heads inside.
