Page 43 of Love Complicated

There are things I don’t want to do on Saturday morning before the football game, and meeting my mother for breakfast ranks up there with having my toenails ripped off.

Guess what I’m doing Saturday morning?

Meeting her for breakfast.

Kill me. Please?

I haven’t seen my mother in nearly eleven years. Hadn’t wanted to. Maybe that’s why it takes her a moment to recognize me, or maybe she doesn’t know what to say to me. After all, the last time I was face-to-face with her, I think my last words were, “I never want to see your face again you lying whore.”

Go ahead, take a look. It’s brutal.

“You’re a lying whore, you know that?”

My mother stared at me, dark eyes narrowed. She hated me from the beginning. “You have absolutely no right to judge me, Ridge. You weren’t in my shoes.”

I laughed, bitter and revolted. “You’re goddamn right I wasn’t. I wouldn’t have fucked up like this.”

She stepped toward me, glass from the broken window I threw a vase through crunching under her feet. Her hand raised to slap me, but I caught it. “You need to earn the right to slap me.”

“You will not talk to me like that. I’m your mother.”

I smile. “What are you going to do about it? Have Brooks kick my ass again? Does he know?”

My words shock her. “What are you talking about?”

“I know he’s my biological father, but I’m curious, did you tell Brooks? Did you tell my dad? Does Austin know? Or have you been lying to everyone over the years?”

I know by the look on her face what that meant. They all knew but me.

She’s a goddamn ray of sunshine, isn’t she? Just wait until you meet her.

Do you see that woman in the burgundy floral-print blouse and black dress pants? The one with the jet-black hair that matches mine and the Botox-injected lips?

That is Madalyn Campbell. My mother. She owns this restaurant I’m stepping inside and half the goddamn town of Calistoga. She wants to own the property the race track resides on, and I’m about to ruin her motherfucking day.

I rather excited about it if you can’t tell.

Since I left town and never returned, Madalyn thinks I don’t want anything to do with the track. And while she may have been right, I can’t say it’s entirely true now.

“You look just like your father.”

Eat a dick, bitch.Of course she fucking said that.

And then she’s hugging me tighter than needed. It’s certainly not by accident. She’d probably stick my head in a vice if she thought she could have gotten away with it. “You’re so handsome and grown up.”

Make her stop touching me.

Just so you know. . . she wants me dead. I wouldn’t put it past her to hire a hit man. That’s me being dramatic, but I’m positive she’s never cared too much for her only son. Probably because I didn’t turn out anything like her. Vindictive. Superficial. Controlling. . . all right, that last one’s debatable.

Despite wanting to vomit at the sight of her, I flash my mother a detached smile and allow her to lower my head so she can kiss my forehead one last time. It burns my skin, like being kissed by Hitler.

I used to fuck this chick in college who was Catholic. Becca Hamilton. I know what you’re thinking. Ridge, that’s incredibly random, and Becca has nothing to do with your mother. Oh, but she does. Stay with me.

So this Catholic chick. . . she gave pretty good head. I remember that much, and she had this book beside her bed by Theresa Caputo calledThere’s More to Life Than This. Have you heard of her? She’s famous for a show calledLong Island Medium. Anyway, inside this book which I read while this God-loving bible-in-her-night-stand girl was deep throating my cock, I learned, or at least read that you apparently pick your parents. I know, you’re thinking, you’re reading while she’s sucking you off? Again, story for another day. Focus. You pick your parents.

So this chick says.

If that’s true, what the actual fuck was I thinking when I chose Madalyn Campbell as my mother? Did my spirit think,fuck, she’s perfect for ruining my life, send me down to earth?

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