Page 62 of Under Locke & Key
I let myself smile, bask in the warmth of him against me, for a moment.
And then I realize what’s woken me. An insistent buzzing on the bedside table vibrates a phone across the surface. Shifting, trying to extricate myself without waking him, I fail spectacularly. I’ve barely rolled over and grabbed the phone before he hauls me back against his body, tucking his head against my body and protesting the start of the day.
“Phone call,” I whisper, though it’s useless since we’re both awake now.
“Yours or mine?” His morning voice is husky in a way that makes heat pool in my core again, wanting to hear him do more of that dirty talk from last night. Because, wow. Unexpected but so hot.
The caller ID reads “Mom” but the black rectangle is indistinguishable otherwise. Rooting around the table for the other, I press the home screen on the one that’s not ringing and the lock screen is his.
“It’s mine.” The call drops and my stomach sinks as I note the seven missed calls from her. I remember the texts from a few weeks ago that I ignored because I was too scared to tell her the truth and too tired to keep lying. Distance and omission seemed safest. I’m not quite sure about that now.
Immediately dialing back, it only rings once before she’s on the other end. “You better be dead or dying!”
“I was asleep. What’s up?” I should probably take this call in another room, but Bryce’s hand has snuck under my tshirt and he’s trailing his fingertips over my stomach in a way that gives me butterflies.
“Asleep? At nine on a workday?” Pulling the phone from my ear I check, and sure enough we’ve slept in. I can still hear my mom’s tinny voice even without it pressed against my face. “I have been outside your apartment since seven hoping to catch you before you went into the office. Imagine my surprise when some random person answers the door and tells me he has no idea who ‘Rachel’ is.”
Oh shit. Fuck. Okay. No. Wait. I never expected them to drive into D.C. especially not without warning. It’s terrible of me that I still haven’t told them, given it’s been months now, but between the sporadic contact and my aversion to disappointing them . . . I was content to just let the time slip by and cross that bridge when the time came.
Apparently that time is now.
“So, uh, there’s something I should probably tell you.”
“Are youwithsomeone right now?” I don’t know how she knows. Bryce hasn’t made a sound. Maybe it’s that uncanny sixth sense that mothers seem to have or maybe she’s just going down a mental list of possibilities.
“That’s not what I need to tell you.” Frustration mounts at her changing the subject.
“But youarewith someone? In bed with someone?” Of all the things to focus on.
I do the only thing I can think of to steer the conversation back on track: blurt out the truth and wait for the fallout.
“I don’t live or work in D.C. anymore.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end and I’m holding my breath, bracing.
“What?!” Her voice is shrill and it’s the worst case scenario. Elizabeth Mackey doesn’t raise her voice like that often. She communicates far better through sighs and disappointment. Anger is a rare beast and one that’s never easily contained before it wreaks havoc.
“Okay, I need you to listen to me for a moment without losing it, please. I know I have no right to ask that of you since I didn’t tell you what was going on and you’re understandably upset. But it was important to me.”
I can hear her huffing and puffing on the other end of the line, likely pacing wherever she’s at.
“Talk,” Mom bites out between her teeth.
“I got passed over for a promotion at Lakin-Cole. Again. And then my new boss sexually harassed me and I just—I couldn’t stay there.” Despite asking her to keep her cool, I’m the one getting elevated. “They treated me like crap. Overlooked everything I did. So, I quit and found something else. It’s so fulfilling. I get to be creative and actually collaborate with the business owner. I’m getting a stake in the company. It just required me to move to Maryland.”
“Still software development?” I hate that that’s her question.
Not “Are you doing okay? Are you liking it? Do they treat you well?” Just, “Are you using your degree for its intended purpose?”
“Among other things. It plays a role.”
“Whatexactlyis the role?” Fuck that stupid sixth sense and my mother’s ability to sniff out a partial or untruth from a mile away.
“It’s design. Software and physical.”
“Physical? Rachel, stop beating around the bush and just tell me. You asked me to listen, so speak.”
My agitation is so high I can feel my heartbeat in my head. Bryce is dragging soothing swipes of his thumb along my skin but it’s not enough to combat the panic building. The reason I never wanted to have this conversation in the first place and have avoided it desperately.
