Page 110 of The Worst Pucking Deal

“Maybe there wasn’t any vacancy anywhere else,” I suggest. “Most establishments are booked out this time of year.”

“But not all,” Sy grumbles. I turn just in time to see him look at his mom in the rearview mirror. “I figured you wouldn’t want to pay for a decent place, so I made a reservation for you.”

My head snaps to the side. “You did?” I ask incredulously. “Where?”

“Of course I did. She’s my mom,” he deadpans.

I frown, not liking the way he speaks about her in the third person. Lowering my voice, I say, “If this is too hard for you I can go to lunch with her myself. I really don’t mind.”

My husband looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “It’s fine,” he says curtly.

Well, okay then.

We’re all quiet for the rest of the drive, and when we reach the fancy hotel, Sy tells her we’ll wait in the car while she checks in. As soon as she’s gone, I turn sideways so I can look at him fully.

“Is this too hard?” I ask. “Because if it is, I really don’t mind if you leave. We can say something came up, or—”

He runs his hand down his face and exhales loudly. “No, it’s better I stay.” He shifts and looks out the window, staying quiet for so long I don’t think he’s going to say anything else. “I meant what I said, bunny. I want to forgive her. But seeing her… it just brings everything back. And I’m still so fucking angry with her.”

Nodding, I bite down on my bottom lip. I hate how much this is upsetting him, and it hurts me to know he’s still hurting. “Why are you so angry with her?” I ask softly. “I mean, I get she cheated, and I’m not going to defend that. But she really cares about you, Sy.”

“How do you know?” he retorts.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I pull my phone out and show him my message thread with her. “See,” I point at the date stamp for the first text I got. “This was the day the public found out Fabian had been stalking me, and that you flew to another continent to save me.”

“How did she get your number?” he asks.

Rolling my eyes, I admit, “I don’t know. Maybe from Tom? Does it really matter? Just read the texts.”

I stop talking, giving him time to read the texts. Every single one is about him. Clarissa was so desperate for news about her son that she asked me what was going on, probably knowing he wouldn’t answer her if she asked him.

“She was really worried about you. All she wanted was to know that you were okay.” I take his hand, holding it between both of mine. “I don’t know what kind of woman she was, Sy. But I think the woman she is today really cares about you.”

“Maybe,” he allows. I can hear the doubt in his voice. “But how can I know for sure?”

“Have you ever asked her what happened? Why she cheated on your dad?”

He scoffs. “I know why. It’s because she was a selfish—”

“Do you really know or do you just think you do?” I ask, interrupting him. “Because there was a time where you thought I’d cheated on Fabian with you.”

“Don’t bring up that bastard,” Sy growls, his nostrils flaring with anger.

Refusing to back down no matter how uncomfortable it is to bring up my dead ex husband whom we both hate, I carry on. “Then stop making the same assumptions and ask the fucking questions, Sy. Only two people can tell you what really went down, and as far as I know, only one of them is eager to be in your life. So either cut her off for good, or listen to what she has to say.” By the end of my tirade, I’m almost shouting.

It’s not that I don’t understand how hard this must be for my husband, and I hate that for him. But he’s not going to do himself any favors by being pigheaded. Sometimes we have to ask the hard questions, and stick around long enough to hear the answers.

“Sorry,” I say, softening my voice. “But look at us. If you’d never been willing to hear my side of the story, we wouldn’t be where we are. Maybe she deserves the same opportunity?”

Before he can answer me, Clarissa returns to the car. Her cheeks are flushed like she’s been rushing around, which seems likely since we haven’t waited that long at all.

“All set?” Sy asks, finding his mom’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Yes, thank you,” she replies hesitantly.

Letting go of my husband’s hand, I move it to his thigh, my thumb running up and down his leg while he drives away from the hotel. “What are you in the mood for?” I ask Clarissa, doing my best to look at her over my shoulder.

“Oh, I’m not fussy. Wherever you want to go is fine.”

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