Page 83 of Fun at Parties
After the party, this will be over. I need to memorize the feeling of him next to me while I can.
The room is warm, and Nate’s body is like a furnace, so I poke my feet out of the covers to cool off. But somehow that activates my restless leg syndrome, so I flex and extend my ankles repeatedly to try to get rid of the sensation. Now that I think about it, my hip is starting to hurt from lying on my side on the too-firm mattress, and I’m one hundred percent certain I can’t stay in this bed for a minute longer, so I slide out of Nate’s grasp.
This is why I start my days with a workout.
“Where’d you go?” His voice is raspy, his eyes still closed.
“You go back to sleep.”
I’m up, but still I don’t look at my phone. I leave it on the nightstand and exit the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind me. Maybe this is the first day of a new routine where I block out the chaos until after breakfast.
I do yoga in the living room and grab overnight oats from the coffee shop down the street. Ninety minutes after I wake up, Nate staggers out of the bedroom, rubbing his face.
“You should’ve stayed in bed,” he says.
I pick up a sliver of banana with my spoon. “I didn’t want to wake you with my weird jittery ankles.”
“I love your weird jittery ankles,” he says, and that word sparkles like all the glitter from last night.Love.My ankles, but still. My ankles are a part of me. Helovesa part of me.
An uncontrollable smile takes over my face. I busy myself with my oats.
Maybe we should break the last leg of the drive upover two days so we can spend one more night together. Maybe he can stay with me at Bailey’s place until she gets back on Thursday.
I need to get out of this room before I ask for too much. “I better get my phone.”
When I see the post I’ve been tagged in, so much rage courses through me that I almost crush the device in my fist.
“50 Is a Plus” is fairly new to social media, with a handful of videos for people with mature skin, full of tips on things like moisturizer selection and eyeliner placement. She encourages people to use her links to purchase the products she recommends. Even though this earns her a commission, she vows she’d never recommend a product she doesn’t genuinely endorse.
The post she tagged me in isn’treallyabout my viral video, but she shoehorns me in, urging her audience to focus their beauty efforts on self-confidence and not the approval of their romantic partners.
50 Is a Plus advocates for a “natural, graceful, grateful approach.” She claims never to have done a cosmetic procedure more intensive than a Hydrafacial. This is a lie. I know because 50 Is a Plus is my mother.
“I am so proud of my daughter,” she says. “She’s my best friend. It’s hard to know when someone is genuine these days, but Quinn is the real deal. Authenticity and hard work are two values we’ve always prioritized in our family. I have so many great stories about Quinn to share with you all. I don’t even know where to start! What she was like as a kid, how we got her to where she is. If youwant tips on how to help guide your adult children to be successful while you learn the pros and cons of cream blush, you’re in the right place. One day soon, I’ll have her join me here to talk about that, her favorite products, the big breakup. Just a girl and her mama gabbing about life. Watch this space!”
My throat is tight. I’m not sure if any air is reaching my lungs. Here she goes again, peddling bullshit, this time with my name attached. Maybe I should feel the worst for the women whose life savings she decimated with Jolee. And I should save a bit of sympathy for anyone comparing their crow’s feet and sagging neck to her smooth skin and feeling bad about themselves.
But the person I pity the most is myself, because I’m the one who never learns. I’ve always told myself my mom was a victim of Jolee—bored, lonely, desperate for identity and community. She took it too far, but she learned her lesson. She felt remorse. She doesn’t want to ask me for money. The loan in my name is her biggest regret. This is the last time. She wouldn’t bring it up if she had any other options. She wants to catch up soon. She misses me. Wants the best for me. Loves me.
No. This is who she is. A scammer who takes advantage of people.
“Hey. Maybe this is going to sound ridiculous, but is there any chance you want to—what’s wrong?” Nate stands in the doorway, his eyes roving over me like he’s looking for a knife wound.
My voice shakes. “I need to go see my mom.”
“What did she do?” he asks. Not, I notice,Is she okay?He sees her clearly without ever having met her, which makes me feel worse about my own gullibility.
I fill him in. Then we ransack the kitchen cabinets for gallon-size Ziploc bags to quarantine last night’s clothes. I toss our toiletries into my suitcase, and he coils up our chargers. It doesn’t take long, since neither of us unpacked much when we got here. The dirty towels go in the machine, the sheets go in a pile on the floor, and I start the dishwasher while he carries our bags to the car.
Once we’re on the highway, threading through tractor trailers with Nate behind the wheel, I look at my phone again. There’s a new email from Tracy, and the subject line isPlan for return.
Let’s do a call on Thursday to discuss, it says.We need to strategize with intention here to capitalize on the situation. I have a lot of ideas. 11 a.m. ET?
It’s already Tuesday. The idea of brainstorming my future with the CycleLove team in two days makes my throat go even tighter, my head pound. I can hear their voices now, talking over one another, talking over me, packaging me up for delivery to CycleLove riders. There are still ten days until Bailey’s party and eleven until I fly back to L.A., but I don’t know how I’m going to be ready for my break to end with all this turmoil. My mom, my impending reunion with Bailey, the ticking clock on my time with Nate. It’s overwhelming.
Overwhelming.Ha. I guess Breanne was right. But I can get more specific than that. What I’m feeling overwhelmed by is a sense of…dread, I guess? A kind of fear, that I’ve gotten this brief respite from work and I’m aboutto hop back on the hamster wheel—a bigger, faster version of the hamster wheel, really—and I don’t know what it’s going to be like, and I’m going to have to do it alone.Worsethan alone—I’m going to have to do it with people I no longer trust.
“You’ll be shocked to hear this,” Nate says, pulling me out of my mental quicksand, “but you have glitter in your hair.”
