Page 93 of A Little Moore Action
More than a tad bit really. I mean, who ‘quits’ a relationship? A relationship with a wonderful, sensitive, sexy-as-fuck woman.
What the hell is wrong with me?
But I know what is wrong with me. I’m scared.
Because even though I know that Bell must’ve had a good reason to keep the information about Stan and Denise from me, and probably another good reason for spending time with my dipshit brother, and for whatever it was that blinded me with rage in that elevator, there is another part of me that is too scared to be sure. Scared that maybe everyone else is right. That maybe Bell would want Thomas, the golden boy who’s once more in charge. That maybe Mom feels the same way about me that Stan does.
Fuck. I’m just as big a pussy as Mike Hunt.
The disco hit “We Are Family” blasts from under my ass. Sighing, I slide my phone out from the couch cushion I hid it under after I was tempted to answer Bell’s calls and texts. And where I kept it after they stopped coming to stop myself from calling or texting her.
For answers? Forgiveness?
Who knows.
Palming the phone, I’m greeted with Liz’s goofy face.
Here’s hoping my baby sister can make me smile. “Hey, Lizzy.”
“Chase, dear, it’s Mom.”
I pull the phone back and check the screen. Yep, still says Liz. “Mom?”
“Yes. Are you home?”
“Uh, yeah. But why are you—”
“See you in a bit then.”
“Wait, what? Mom? Hello?”
The screen darkens. She hung up. Why is Mom using Liz’s phone? And just how does she think she’s getting into my apartment? Only Liz and Bell are on the pre-approved list.
Ding.
Oh, shit.
The telltale click of heels sounds from the hallway.
“Chase?” Tall and slender, Emily Moore enters my unkempt living room. Her eyes move around the room, taking in the drawn curtains, the empty food containers, and the half-empty bottle of scotch on the table next to me. “Oh, Chase. My sweet boy.”
I glance at my glass again, wondering how much I’ve had. If I’ve somehow drunk myself into such a stupor that I’m imagining my mother’s caring tone.
Tentatively, Mom makes her way toward me, bypassing Mike, who seems to think licking one’s nuts in front of someone’s mom is a line even he won’t cross.
Instead, he leaps up onto the armchair and lies down, watching the proceedings from his throne on high.
Mom comes to a bit of an impasse, not sure whether to take the seat next to me or keep standing. Finally, she perches on the edge of the coffee table. We’re eye to eye.
We sit there like that, staring at each other, until I can’t take the silence anymore. “Where’s Liz?”
“Downstairs, keeping the floor manager busy so I could sneak up here.”
“Traitor,” I mutter.
That gets a small smile from her. I can’t remember the last time I made my mother smile. Then again, do I even look for it anymore?
“Don’t think that way. She was worried about you.I’mworried about you.”
