Page 25 of Isn't She Lucky
“Did you hear anything I just said?”
I glance away from her briefly and say, “No. I apologize. I was in deep thought.”
She sighs and says, “Do you have a pen?”
I pull one out of the inner pocket of my suit jacket. Yes, I’m dressed up on a Saturday evening because I had to meet with a client this afternoon – a meeting that ran over longer than I expected. There wasn’t any time to change clothes, and I wasn’t about to miss this meeting with Giada.
I hand her the pen.
“Thanks,” she says, taking it from my grasp.
Our fingers touch slightly, but it’s enough to send a jolt through me – reminders of what I’ve been missing. I heard her sharp intake of breath the moment it happened. She felt the spark, too. The charge. The undeniable, achingly familiar pull that lingers in the heavy tension surrounding this table.
She scribbles her name wildly and places the pen on top of the paper and says, “There. It’s done.”
“What time can I expect you tomorrow?”
“I can’t go by there tomorrow. Monday is more like it.”
“No. Tomorrow. I don’t care how late it is.”
“Fine,” she says, standing. Frowning.
“Giada—”
“I have things to do,” she says, cutting me off. “See youtomorrow.” She hikes up her brows and rolls her eyes before walking away from the table.
I flinch as she leaves. The sight of her walking away from me hits a nerve, reawakening the sadness I could never bury. God knows that’s the one thing I can’t take – her walking away from me, leaving emptiness in my world.
Not again.
The last time she did that was fourteen years ago. I can’t let it happen again.
I won’t let it happen again.
6.
I got somany zeroes in my bank account, I feel like I just robbed the Federal Reserve. It’s been a week since I signed the contract, and I haven’t spent a lick of that money. It still feels wrong. It feels good telling my mother I was going to buy her a house, but oh does it feel wrong. It’s not my money. It’shismoney. Mr. Prettier-Girls-At-My-School.
“Are you sure, Giada?” Mom asks.
“Yeah, Ma. I’m sure.”
“But—but you haven’t bought a house for yourself.”
“That’ll come later. You deserve this after all those years you worked hard to make sure we made it. I want to do this for you.”
Tears flowed out of her eyes like a river. In them, I see years of struggle. I see the times she was just barely staying above water, scraping by trying to make ends meet. I see instances when she didn’t have two pennies to rub together. Now, she’ll have something that’s hers permanently.
I say, “I already contacted a realtor. They’re going to email you some houses. You just let her know which one you want to go check out, okay?”
“Okay. I can do that.”
“Good.”
She stands up from the sofa and wraps her arms around me. I let her cry. She deserves this. I’m not one of those daughters who’s oblivious to the sacrifices she made for me. My mom was a teen mom. She had me when she was nineteen. She graduated from high school, but that was the extent of her education. When she found that housekeeping job, she stuck with it. The hours were good for her schedule and mine. She made sure I got on the bus in the mornings, and when I was younger, she made sure she was home before I got there. My needs came first. She was just – well – living for me. Now, it’s time she lived for herself. To date, fall in love – do all the things she couldn’t do because she was making sure I had what I needed. I want that so much for her, but first, I wanted her to have a home to call her own.
She didn’t need to know how I could afford it, nor was I going to disclose to her how it was possible.
