Page 140 of Relationship Goals

“Thank you,” I tell him. My forehead’s left a greasy spot on the window, and Darren chuckles when I frown at it.

“Now come here and let me fix your face before we get back to the hotel,” he says.

I acquiesce, closing my eyes and tilting my head back against the seat as Darren digs through his bag.

It’s easier not to talk, especially when he starts slapping on under-eye patches and dabbing various creams on my skin.

Darren is right about our friendship, of course.

But I thought I’d found someone else who might love me no matter how harebrained my schemes got, and it’s still too raw and painful to think fully about what I might have lost.

Chapter Forty-one

Luke

When I seethe name on my phone, I pick it up immediately.

“Mom, hi? How are you?”

“Hi, honey.” My mom’s voice is tired, and it makes my whole chest hurt. “I’m okay. But I’m worried about you.”

“You’re worried about me?” I say on a small, disbelieving laugh. “You’re the one who’s doing chemo right now.”

She sighs, the long-suffering sound coming through loud and clear on the phone. “Will you stop?”

“Stopping,” I agree. The caterer’s busy setting up all the food for the team, the smell of pork carnitas, carne asada, and fresh tortillas permeating the entire house.

“And, yes, of course I’m worried about you. I’m your mother.”

I snort at that.

“It doesn’t matter how old you get. You will always be my baby.”

“I hear you, Mom,” I tell her, shaking my head and grinning into the phone at the scolding in her voice.

“This girl, Abigail Hunt, why did you two break up?”

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. The tabloids got wind of the fact Abigail and I hadn’t been seen together after our very public whirlwind of dates, and they’ve been relentless about following both of us.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I finally answer.

My mother sighs, and I don’t have to see her face to know the exact expression of disappointment that’s on it.

I hate disappointing her. “I’m…I’m ashamed of how it ended,” I admit.

She lets out a long breath, and a chair creaks as she sits down.

“Are you in the kitchen?” I ask, certain I know exactly where she is—in the antique rocker my stepdad and I found for her when I was sixteen. We were out of town for a tournament, and he pulled over when he saw the antiques depot.

My mom’s face when we pulled up with the old rocker late that Sunday was worth the hassle of strapping it down, and now it lives in the wallpapered kitchen with a flock of ceramic geese and my mom’s fresh-baked sourdough bread.

“Yep, just fed the starter.”

“I miss your bread,” I tell her, and it’s inadequate for the well of emotion.

One of the caterers jeers at another, and the entire crew starts laughing.

“What’s that?” my mom asks, her tone changing to one of pure interest. “Are you out somewhere?”

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