Page 85 of The Love Playbook

“They cited their reasoning as poor job performance and”?Mom sniffles?“repeated no-call, no-show.”

“Damnit. You won’t be eligible then,” I say, feeling the remnants of my patience snap. “What the hell, Mom?”

“I’m sorry,” she croaks, her voice hitching over the words.

I inhale through my nose, keeping my mouth clamped shut for fear of what might come out. All I want to do is yell at her. To reach through the phone, grab her, and shake some sense into her. To shout thatsorryisn’t enough. That she needs money to pay for food, the mortgage, and her therapist. That her problems shouldn’t become my problems. That she’s on her own now. But I can’t. I can’t do any of those things. Just like I can’t leave her to figure this out on her own because I know how that ends, and it’s not a scenario I want to entertain.

“I know you’re sorry, but being sorry won’t help,” I say, hating that I sound like a pissed-off parent.

“I’ll start applying for jobs,” Mom says.

“That’s good, Mom,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and my tone platonic, though I don’t hold out much hope. She’s already been out of work for a week, and it took her this long just to call me when she should’ve been applying to jobs already.

“You need to find something. Start applying, and in the meantime . . .” I tip my head back, leaning it against the back ofthe chair, knowing what I must do. “I’ll figure something out, but you need to go back to see Dr. Sherri and take your meds.”

Silence falls over the line.

“Mom, do you hear me? You have to see Dr. Sherri. Call her as soon as we hang up and book an appointment.”

Without her meds and therapy sessions, there’s no way she’ll ever dig herself out of this hole.

“But the money?”

“I’ll figure it out, but that’s the deal. You go, and I help, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, sounding resigned.

“I need to go.”

Before I explode and flip the fuck out.

Once she says goodbye, I hang up, and proceed to stare at my phone, my mind a swirl of conflicting thoughts. I absolutely hate that my mother’s struggling. Hearing her cry is like a dagger to the chest, but it’s also the most frustrating thing on the face of the planet because her depressive cycles are nothing if not predictable, and they’re getting old. I’m so damn tired of trying to lift her out of them when all I want to do is live my life. All I want is a mother I can turn to with my problems, not the other way around.

I press my fingers to my temples as I consider my options. I can’t physically make my mother get a new job. Even if I applied for her, I can’t force her to get in a car and go to the interviews. Just like I couldn’t force her to show up for work after I left her place after my birthday.

There’s only one thing I can think of that will help solve the immediate issue at hand and the lack of money. And the only person I can think of who might give us a loan so she can go to therapy and continue her meds while she gets back on her feet is my father. The one person who also happens to be holding things over my head as collateral.

I have no doubt that if I ask him for this favor, he’ll ask for one in return, but giving him what he wants?my blessing and participation in their impending nuptials?will only worsen my mother’s depression. The whole situation is one giant catch-22. Asking him for a favor is necessary to help her but it will turn around and hurt her more. I just have to hope the good outweighs the bad.

I squeeze the phone in my hand until my knuckles ache.

In the grand scheme of things, it’s not my problem. I should go back to my room and finish dinner with the girls. I should forget this phone call and leave her to figure out her own shit.

I should . . . But I can’t.

With a muttered curse, I swipe open my phone and dial my father as I grumble, “Expect the unexpected, alright.”

Chapter 20

CHARLOTTE

Ido one last sweep of my dorm room checking for Danger’s hoodie. If I leave now, I’ll have just a few minutes to spare to stop by his apartment and return it. I feel bad I’ve kept it for so long. It’s not like we’re dating, and when I saw him in class this week and saidhihe seemed kind of short with me. I can’t help but wonder if it’s in part because I haven’t so much as mentioned returning it or Saturday night.

“Damn,” I murmur to myself when I come up empty-handed. I know I put it on my desk chair. Even Samantha rooted through her laundry bag in search of it, and still, nothing. It’s like it’s just . . . vanished.

Giving up, I take a seat on my bed and shoot Samantha a text, reminding her I won’t be here for dinner, then glance at the time.It’s just after six in the evening, which means the boys should be done with practice, so I open up my messages with Chris.

More than a week has passed since our time together on Sunday, and though we saw each other briefly earlier this week, I haven’t seen him since. Instead, we’ve been texting, but he’s been constantly on my mind, especially since my conversation with the girls the other day.

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