Page 84 of Jameson Fox

I smile at him, trying hard not to drop my gaze to his muscles that are on full display after he spent the last hour and a half in his gym. I fail, but I actually don’t care. And judging from the way I find him watching me, he’s on board with it too.

“Well,” Mom says to him, “you can afford to eat as many as you like.”

I only just stop myself from rolling my eyes. Honestly, she’s too much with all this diet talk. Not to mention her distinctions between what’s appropriate for a man versus a woman. Trying to shift the conversation, I ask, “What time do you want to go shopping today?”

“Oh, no, I can’t go today. We’ll have to do it tomorrow. Or Monday.”

I frown. “I thought we’d made a plan to go today.”

“Yes, but I spoke with Marla last night and she invited me out to lunch. Her boyfriend has a friend she thinks I’d get on well with. He wants to meet me.”

I stare at her.

Stunned, when I shouldn’t be.

Of course, she’s abandoning me in favor of a man. She’s not even abandoning me for a friend; she dislikes Marla and only contacts her when she comes to town in the hope she’ll introduce her to men.

Jameson grabs a drink from the fridge and comes to stand next to me. I barely notice him. My mom has my full attention.

“I can’t go tomorrow or Monday.”

She waves me off like she doesn’t care. “No worries. I can go by myself. You can just write me a blank check.”

“No, I’m not writing a blank check.”

I don’t know if it’s my tone or what I’ve said that causes it, but she blinks and looks at me like I’ve just said something hurtful to her. “I need a dress, Adeline.”

The guilt and shame that usually stops me saying no to her is no match for the hurt and anger coursing through me. “You have plenty of dresses.” I should know because I bought them for her.

“I want a new one for this date.”

I swear I hear Jameson grunt beside me. When he makes a move like he’s going to leave the kitchen, I place my hand on his arm and stop him. I don’t want him to leave.

“Well, I’m not paying for it,” I say.

“You’re punishing me because I can’t go shopping today.”

My anger sparks like lightning cracking across the sky. It’s not that shecan’tgo. “I don’t punish people, Mom. That’s not my style.”

“It feels like punishment,” she says, sounding like a child.

How can a mother be like this? When did her ability to nurture, to care, to love, disappear? Did she ever even have that ability?

“I’m hurt, Mom. Hurt that you’re so easily discarding me so you can go out and find a man to sleep with. And as for not wanting to write you a blank check, it’s not my responsibility to pay for your life.”

“I never said it was your responsibility, Adeline. But I do think it’s nice for a child to help her parent when she can.”

And just like that, she shows my hurt and anger out, and welcomes my guilt back in.

I’m in the middle of dealing with that guilt when Mom gives me one last look that expresses her disappointment and walks out of the kitchen.

I watch her go, lost for words. So lost that I don’t even have any for Jameson when he says, “She’s a piece of work.”

Yes, she is, but I’m struggling to acknowledge that because my guilt is spiraling through me, reaching down deep to the little girl inside me who desperately wants her mother’s love and approval. I know that little girl exists in all of us because my therapist has taught me about her. I’ve done a lot of healing work on my inner child, but I know it can be a life-long process. I know I’ve still got a lot of work ahead of me.

“Adeline,” Jameson says. “She’s wrong.”

“I know, but she always has a way of messing with my thoughts.”

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