Page 84 of Fun at Parties
I’m so deep in my thoughts I barely register that he’s sitting next to me. My attempt at a smile feels more like a grimace.
“You okay?” Nate asks. “Did she text you?”
“It’s not my mom. Just work. I have a call with them in a couple days.”
He turns down the volume on the radio. “Yeah?” His voice is casual, but the way he looks back at me isn’t. “What’s it about?”
“I’m not sure,” I lie, ducking my head so I don’t have to sayIt’s about what I’m going to do after we’re over.
When I look up again, his eyes are back on the road, but he’s working his jaw. “Don’t let them talk you into anything you don’t want to do. You deserve better than that.” He pauses. “You deserve everything.”
A lump swells in my throat like a wave. “Thanks.”
“I don’t just mean at work. Work is only one thing. What I mean is that you deserve everything you want.”
The wave rises further, and now my eyes are damp. It’s the most loving thing anyone’s ever said to me.Happy tears,I tell myself. But that’s a lie too.
Chapter 28
Asheville, North Carolina—674 miles to Seapoint
Five hours later, I leaveNate in the parking lot of a big-box store on the outskirts of Asheville. He offered to go to my mom’s with me, but I need to do it alone. He’s going to buy some office supplies and work on his pitch, and we’ll meet up later.
Thirty minutes after that, I pull into a fifty-five-and-over community and make a left onto a street I recognize only by name. I’ve never been here, and every townhouse on the block has the same siding (brick veneer on the front, vinyl on the rest), but I spot the right one without needing to check the house number. It’s got an explosion of fall décor out front under the porch lights—faux hay bales and pumpkins, a wreath of leaves in autumn colors, and cornstalks attached to the pillars.
Tuesday is her day off. The rest of the week, she works the front desk at a medi-spa. My aunt Heather lives nearby, which is why my parents moved down here a couple years ago, after their landlord sold the house they’d been renting.
When Mom opens the front door, she stares at me blankly. The bangs are new, though I saw them in her video, but otherwise she looks the same as always—shoulder-length blond blowout, flawless makeup on her sweet-as-pie face, pretty blouse. “Quinn?” The first time she says my name, it sounds like an accusation. “Quinn?” When she repeats it, her voice is approximately seventy-four octaves higher and verging on hysterical, and I grit my teeth. Here comes an over-the-top warm welcome, even though I can’t remember the last time she initiated a conversation with me that wasn’t about a favor she needed.
I’m filled with the same complicated blend of resentment, guilt, and frustration I always feel when I see her. Then she wraps me in a big hug and starts to sob, which is usually when the fondness kicks in—the most confusing part of the emotional mix. Not today, though.
“What are you doing here?” she asks. Before I can answer, she pulls me inside and drags me to the kitchen. “Let me call your dad and see if he can come home early. Are you staying the night?”
“Wait, Mom. I need to talk to you.” She’s busy filling a glass with sugar-free lemonade and pressing it into my hand. “Mom.”
“Are you hungry? You look like you could use a Lean Cuisine. None for me, though, I’m doing intermittent fasting again.”
“Mom.”
She flits around, from the freezer back toward me, then over to her phone by the sink. Her hands fly everywhere. “This is the best surprise! My famous daughter. Wait, let’s take a picture!”
When she picks up the phone, I flinch like she’s going to hit me with it. Any photo of us she takes is currency; she’ll cash it in online for clout.
“No!” I say it forcefully enough that she stops. “I’m here to talk about 50 Is a Plus. What are youdoing?”
She presses her lips together as she scrutinizes me. I can see the wheels turning as she debates how to play it. I can’t let her take control of this conversation. She’s too good at it.
“It’s shady. Saying you look like that because of whatever you’re selling and not because of your Botox and fillers and that eyelid surgery. What happened to ‘Jolee was a mistake I got caught up in because it made me feel like a person and not just a mom, because it gave me a community and an identity’? What happened to feeling guilty about all the lies?”
“You’re being a little dramatic,” she says. “It’s not the same as Jolee. So what if somebody buys one measly serum based on my recommendation? It can’thurt.Most of the products I’ve talked about so far are things I like, anyway.”
I change tack. “It can hurtme.You made a big deal in that video about us being related. I already get a nasty message about Jolee every couple months when somebody you used to work with recognizes me. Those people are out there, and they’re still pissed, and the last thing I need is for them to come after me because of what you did.” The ice cubes in the glass I’m holding rattle vigorously. I set it on the counter. “You haven’t even asked me if I’m okay, Mom. You know I got cheated on and dumped. Aren’t you worried about your daughter?”
She scoffs. “Quinn. Of course I felt for you. But I know you’re okay. You always bounce back. And you can console yourself with your glamorous life in L.A. and those big piles of money you’re making. A man is nothing compared to that. If you’re upset,cheer up.”
She sounds bitter. Jealous, even.
“I don’t know how big you think these piles of money are,” I say quietly. “Most of what I make goes toward fixing things you did.”
