Page 50 of The One I Want
“Yes!” Magnolia says, running toward the rotating door. “We’re going to see Mommy!”
Emerson and Hank don’t share her enthusiasm, instead walking next to me, each carrying their overnight bags and presents.
“Are you guys okay?” I ask as we step onto the elevator.
Emerson just shrugs. “Yeah. I mean, she’s our mom. We should see her. I just don’t know how to act.”
The kids don’t talk about Cara a lot. I don’t know if it’s because they don’t think they can talk to me about her, or if they just don’t want to talk. What I really think is happening is that they don’t want to talk about her around Wes—especially Emerson.
“You act like yourself,” I say. “She’s still your mom. You’re still her kids. Yes, things are different now. But those two things will never change. So just talk. Tell her about your new school and friends. Tell her about that new book series we found. Tell her anything you want to talk about.”
Emerson nods. “She’s going to flip when she sees how I’m dressed.”
I check out her outfit. Today it’s a Nirvana T-shirt and a pair of ripped, wide leg jeans. After that first day when she asked me to help her pick out an outfit, she told me how she didn’t like a lot of her clothes. That her mom bought them, so she wore them. Slowly but surely, we’ve been turning over her closet from skirts and a lot of pastels to a more Emerson-appropriate style, which consists of T-shirts, jeans, and not an ounce of the color pink.
“She might,” I say, suspecting she will and not wanting to lie to the girl. “And if she does, just say that you like it.”
Emerson nods. “Thanks, Betsy. Can I text you if I need anything?”
“You better,” I say, wrapping my arm around her shoulder. “And if she says anything bad about that T-shirt, you better tell me. I have one at home, and I’ll make sure to wear it tomorrow when I come get you guys.”
She starts laughing as the elevator door opens. Magnolia immediately sprints out of the elevator and goes the wrong way.
“Miss Mags! Over here!”
She stops and turns, somehow losing no momentum as she races back toward us. The poor girl is out of breath by the time we reach the room.
And just as I’m about to knock I feel a tug on my shirt.
“Betsy?”
I look down at Hank, who is almost white in the face. “Yeah?”
“I’m nervous.”
“Oh buddy,” I say, wrapping him in a hug. “You have nothing to be nervous about. It’s your mom. It was her idea to have you come for a sleepover. She missed you and wanted to give you guys an early Christmas.”
“I know,” he says. “It’s just weird.”
“It is,” I say, giving him a kiss on the forehead. “But like I told Emerson, if you need me, or don’t feel comfortable, call me. I’ll be in the car so fast Uncle Shane might have to give me a speeding ticket.”
This makes him smile. “Okay.”
Magnolia starts knocking on the door as hard as her little six-year-old self can do. It takes a minute, but the door finally opens and I’m face to face with the woman I’ve been social media stalking—researching—for weeks.
“Mommy!” Magnolia yells, racing into the room and wrapping her arms around Cara’s legs.
“Hey, sweet pea,” she says, leaning down and hugging her. “Emerson, Hank, come on. Give mommy a hug?”
I give the two a little light pat on the back as they make their way to their mom. They each give her a hug around her waist, but I can tell it’s guarded.
Cara looks up at me as the kids let go and go take their bags into the room. “You must be Betsy.”
She looks me up and down as if she’s checking me out. She’s trying to make me feel self-conscious. Jokes on her. I know exactly how I look. Hot without trying. Put together. Hair perfect. Makeup on point. I had a feeling just based on my stalking—researching—that she’d be checking me out. So when Wes told me he needed me to bring the kids to Cara’s, I did what anyone would do—I called Whitley to bring me over an outfit and my emergency hair and makeup bag. I wasn’t about to give Cara ammo. I’ve been around way too many Southern beauty queen bitches in my day to not know how this game is played.
So I do what I know will enrage her. I’m nice to her. I reach out my hand, but she doesn’t return it. Because of course she doesn’t.
“I am. Nice to meet you.”
