Page 7 of My Sweetest Obsession
I freeze, both because my stomach doesn’t appreciate the movement, nor does my head, but also because Mom stands at the counter, pouring coffee out of the carafe into two mugs.
What the fuck?
Squeezing my eyes closed, I reopen them in case I’m hallucinating, but she’s still there.
Her eyes flick over to me, and she presses her lips together in a firm line, giving me “the look” I always dreaded as a child—the one that screams disappointed, which is far worse than her mad look. “About time you woke up.”
“Mom?”
The word comes scratchy from my raw throat, as if it, too, can’t believe she’s here in my studio.
How the fuck?
I struggle to remember anything about how she got here…
But all I see is her.
Bits and pieces of my conversation with Ivy flash through my head so rapidly that it makes the room spin again and my nausea exponentially worse. But not because of my epic hangover. The roiling in my stomach comes from what I can remember…
I cringe, squeezing my eyes closed, and drop back into the bed, releasing another groan as I curl in on myself, pressing my hands over my revolting gut. But that sweet floral smell still clings to my sheets—her.
Us.
“I bet you feel like shit.”
Mom’s voice is closer this time.
So is the scent of the coffee.
I peel one eye open to find her standing at the side of the bed, a mixture of concern and confusion in her gaze. “I…don’t feel great…”
She holds out a mug, pursing her lips. “I would imagine not, given how much you apparently drank last night.”
How does she…
My head spins, my sluggish brain trying to process what happened to get her here, but I’m clearly still half-drunk. And the half that isn’t still lit is deep in a wicked hangover already.
I cautiously manage to push myself up onto my elbow and reach a shaking hand up to take the mug from her as my brain thumps against my temples viciously. “Thank you.”
She inclines her head slightly and watches me take a tentative sip. I wince at how hot it is, the harsh liquid searing my mouth and my throat, and my stomach twists brutally, not appreciating it, either.
The acidic black coffee doesn’t help the nausea situation, but Mom just stares at me expectantly. “Drink all of it.”
I know that tone, and I am not about to argue with her in my condition. Especially when I have no idea why she’s here, let alone how she found out where I was. “Okay…”
Did I call her last night after Ivy left?
Everything is a blur of tears, pain, and really horrific decisions.
Mom retreats from the bed and takes a seat on one of the stools at the counter in front of the other mug she poured, pointedly turning on it so that she’s facing the bed and watching me.
I shift up until my back meets the headboard, running my free hand through my hair to keep it off my face. The pounding in my head only increases the more vertical I am. The sledgehammer has now become a fucking jackhammer drilling against my skull relentlessly. “What are you doing here?”
A dark brow rises at me, the reprimand already there without her saying a word. She toys with the mug handle as she keeps her assessing gaze on me, almost as if she’s waiting for me to volunteer something. “Ivy called me last night…”
Shit.
I freeze with the mug halfway to my lips, watching her over the rim.
