Page 198 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 2

She embraces me like a daughter she’s close to, a daughter who she hasn’t seen in a long time and whose presence has been missed.

In reality, she hasn’t missed me a single day of my life. Her lifestyle is a testament to her chosen path and my replacement.

I lift my arms, but they’re slow to obey. I’ve been hurt before by her absence. Does her presence make a difference? I hug her. “What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were in the city?”

“Look at you. So . . . adult-like.” Pulling back, she holds my arms, swinging them wide so she can get a good look at me. I lost the five pounds she used to hound me about, but I’m pretty sure they returned in the last week living with Jackson. Happiness does that, gives one a sense of comfort when someone not only accepts you but loves you for who you are and not just for appearances.

When her eyes linger on my midsection, I yank my arms out of her hands. “That happens when you near thirty.”

“Thirty?” Her head goes back as if she’s going to need smelling salts to continue. “How is it possible that I have a thirty-year-old?”

“Not quite yet. I have a good six months.”

“Right. That’s good. I was starting to feel old. What a dreadful hand to be dealt.”

Jackson stands and says, “It’s good to see you again, Ms. Marché.”

Her entire body angles toward him, and she drops her wrist in front of him. I want to roll my eyes. Good Lord, this is over the top. She should probably take a break from the French Riviera. “Who are you?” she asks, giving him sudden interest.

And my friends always calledmeover the top. Guess the apple doesn’t fall far in that aspect. I’m tall enough for entry into the runway world of modeling but more muscular in build. My mom said designers would never want to fit clothes on that type of model. It seemed to bother her more than me.

At fourteen, I knew that life wasn’t for me, and I was happy not to follow in my mother’s footsteps.

My dad said I was pretty and could make it in Hollywood if I put in the effort. It was a constant fight between them. But I know my mom married him for his money, so I’m not sure she thought beyond the wedding. She left to get away from him after the divorce, but I wish she would have stayed for me.

None of it matters now, so why do I feel like a child begging for her attention?

“Jackson St. James. We’ve met a couple of times over the years. I’m a good friend of Marlow’s.”

“How good?”

My mouth falls open while Jackson takes the question in stride. Reaching for my hand, he holds it as he moves to my side. “Very good friends.”

“I see.” Her eyes shift to mine. “I didn’t know you were dating anyone.”

A server squeezes by, and I realize we’re blocking the walkway. “How long will you be here?” I hate that I sound like a little girl again, but I’ve asked her this same question many times over the years. It’s not so far-fetched that not much has changed.

She smiles. “Paolo’s waiting for me in the other room, so I should get back. We flew in to celebrate a friend’s birthday tonight.” Grabbing my wrist, she asks, “Lunch or dinner before I leave?” An air kiss is given to each cheek before she turns to leave. “I’ll text you tomorrow. Bye, darling.”

Reaching for my throat, I cover it, hoping the lump of pain she left in her wake doesn’t get stuck there forever.

Jackson rubs my lower back and angles me toward him, putting the rest of the patrons behind us. Whispering, he says, “This place isn’t so great. Why don’t we get our order to go?”

I manage a smile under the waterfall of emotions trying to drown me. I take a sip of my champagne and then just finish it because who cares about appearances anyway. Setting it down, I say, “I’m good without the food.”

“I think we should eat.” He sits down and then adds, “Please sit.”

Besides feeling numb from running into my mom in the first place, her blatant disregard hurts the most. I sit, and then I reach across the table to grab his glass and shoot the rest of his lowball of whiskey.Why not?

“As much as I don’t want you puking on the ride home, do you need another?”

“My throat is on fire.” It’s hard to catch my breath through the rasps and coughing. “I don’t know how you drink that stuff.” I sip water to douse the fire. Setting the glass back down, I say, “I want another round.”

Twenty minutes and two drinks I shoot like shots later, I’m feeling less—physically, caring emotionally, less of everything—which is what I wanted.

“What about tacos? We could get tacos on the way home or a hot dog. Mmm, a hot dog sounds so good. Doesn’t it, Jackson?”

“The food should be here any minute, but you might want to slow down, Marlow.”

---