Page 85 of Show Off

“No.” I answered too quickly, I think. “It’s best if I do this alone.”

His lips pressed together. “Best for whom?”

I didn’t have an answer. “I should go.”

The sound of stilettos on hardwood jerks my focus to the hall of the cabin. I turn to the right, and there she is—Shirleen Judson, sex siren of seventies cinema, tabloid darling, the woman who gave birth to me.

My mother wears a green silk caftan that would feel chic and effortless in Hollywood. Here, she looks like an uncomfortable peacock.

“Mother.” I step to her side and offer a hug that feels much too stiff. “Nice to see you. Did you have a good trip?”

“Oh, you know how it is.”

Not really; not anymore. It’s been ages since I flew on a private jet, but that doesn’t matter right now. “Dad told me about the interview. That’s exciting.”

“Isn’t it?”

I nod and slip into PR mode. “Her show’s been in the number one slot for the past sixteen weeks. Viewership numbers around two and a half million last month. She teases each show on her podcast, so we’ll see plenty of extra exposure.”

“Wonderful.” Mom tries to frown, but the fillers in her face have other ideas. “Unfortunately, there’s been a wrinkle.”

Not on her forehead, that’s for damn sure. “What wrinkle?”

Mom heaves a put-upon sigh. “Jamila’s being difficult. She says four guests on screen will be ‘too distracting.’” Her fingers scrape the air to form facetious quotes. “No more than two of us, she says. Can you believe it?”

“I can.” I respect that Jamila’s producers run a tight ship. I’ve been on her show more times than I can count. Back when I ran my own PR firm, I sent dozens of clients her way. “She likes to keep things intimate. It’ll be cozy, just the two of you.”

“Absolutely not.” She squares her shoulders like she’s taking a stand to end world hunger. “I’m reading the excerpt about Mother’s Day. They can’t expect me to do that without at least one of my children beside me. How would that look?”

Ah, yes. Because how it looks is the main thing here. “I’m sure it’s fine,” I tell her. “We’ll send her some B-roll that shows the whole family. Maybe some footage from Cooper’s wedding, or that time we all got together for Mari’s?—”

“I told her you’ll be there.” Mom hooks an arm around my waist, a gesture more possessive than affectionate. I force a bigger smile as my brain flips to the walk around the lake with Dal. That feels like two weeks ago instead of twenty minutes.

“Great.” I’m trying for bright, but it comes out wobbly. “I—” can’t come up with any excuse not to be there. “I’ll check my schedule.”

“It’s free,” she says. “I already checked.”

Of course she did. “Well.” I smooth my hands down the front of my shorts. “We don’t want Mari and Lauren to feel left out.”

“I just texted, and they’re fine with it.” This doesn’t surprise me, either. Mom looks in my eyes, and my stomach curls in on itself. “It’s partly your story, after all.”

She gives me a meaningful look. I know what she means, what she’s implying.

I also know the scene she’ll be reading. It’s one her editor nearly cut from the book, but Mom insisted it stay. One of those “isn’t that adorable” anecdotes meant to tug fans’ heartstrings and show them how Shirleen Judson isJust Like Us™.

“Mom—”

“It’ll be great, Lana.” She wraps me tight in a hug, an itchy maternal blanket of overpriced silk and cloying Chanel. “Just what we need right now.”

“Right.” I’m not sureweincludes me, but I make myself smile anyway. “Sounds good.”

* * *

It’s latewhen I make it to Dal’s. Serenade closed an hour ago, so I’m hoping I’ve timed this right. That I can steal ten minutes of his time, or maybe just a hug.

My knock echoes loud and hollow over the sound of crickets. I jump when the door swings open, but it’s not Dal.

“Hey, Lana.” Ji-Hoon smiles and wheels himself aside. “Come in. We just poured a shift drink.”

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