Page 5 of Love Beyond the Illusion
I’ve been disconnected for the last ten years, and I hadn’t realized that Preston ended up taking the same path my father always wanted me to follow.
“That can’t happen.” My eyebrows snap together. “I didn’t know Preston was getting married.”
She grimaces. “Yes, I thought you knew. He’s marrying Sophia Dennings.”
My high school girlfriend. The same girlfriend who hooked up with one of my other friends our senior year. The one who wanted to marry me as soon as we graduated. The same girl who told me that college would be a waste since I’d already had a career and wealth. How we differed on so many fundamental beliefs and goals could not have been more apparent.
The last thing I wanted was to get married at eighteen and never experience anything for myself. An itch of unrest brewed inside my young mind as I knew I had to create my own path. When I left, I vowed never to return to my hometown, and in the years I’ve been gone, I’ve quietly returned only a handful of times.
When it was time to move back to Dupara after my college graduation, I stayed where I was and accepted a job at a marketing firm in Phoenix.
“Why am I not surprised that she went on to date another one of my friends,” I condescendingly spit as if she didn’t already know.
“Since Sophia comes from an old family of growers, it would have been a good match for you. I’m sure Steve was thinking the same thing about his son,” she points out.
I try to hold back the obvious disgust with respect for my mom but fail miserably.
She shakes her head, grabs her glass from the table between us, and heads toward the maple wood French doors. “You have always been one to do things your own way—and with a slight chip on your shoulder, I might add. But one day, someone will come along and knock that chip right off.”
“You never know,” I kindly dismiss her.
“Alright. I love you, son,” she says, stepping into the house.
Looking back toward the endless hills, I take the first drink of my red, which is now finally the temperature I prefer. “I love you too,” I mutter into the empty air. I pull out my phone and scroll through my work emails.
When I handed in my official resignation letter to the marketing firm, they were heartbroken by my departure but asked that I stay on for sixty days to finish up with my clients who still have open projects. The rest are being dispersed among my colleagues.
I knew this day would come, but I never expected it so soon.
I stayed outside until the sun set and the automatic patio light turned on. I fly out to Vegas this weekend to finish up with my last client. Shortly after, I officially move out of my condo in Phoenix to relocate back up here to Dupara, giving up the last bit of freedom I’ll ever know.
Chapter Three
Piper
Ijigglewiththekey to the front door while my phone vibrates in the pocket of my uniform. Sliding my phone out, I see who’s calling—and like it always does when I see her name pop up on the screen, a dark, thick cloud rolls in, blanketing me with a heavy, dense pressure.
“Hello, Roxy,” I answer.
“Why do you always insist on calling me by my first name, my little Piper Moon?” she asks. I never wanted to call my mother by her first name, but it hasn’t felt natural to refer to her asmomsince I was a child.
“What do you need?” I ask, wheeling my luggage into my small, one-bedroom, high-rise apartment in downtown Scottsdale.
“It seems I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a pickle again, sweetie. I’m going to need help with rent this month.” My mother’s voice lacks the typical shame or embarrassment that one would expect. It takes on a cheery tone like it always does because in her world, I’m a mere extension of her. Roxy has always felt entitled to anything I’ve had, and she eagerly takes what’s hers.
I let my bag fall to the floor. I need to unpack my clothes from this last trip and switch them out for the next. “I thought Kurt was helping you with rent?”
“No, no, Kurt is out of the picture. He was not good for my aura. You know that’s something I need to protect. And besides, you can afford it with your high-paying flight attendant salary anyway.”
I huff at her comment regarding how much money I make. We’ve gone over it multiple times in the last four years, that I only make a living wage. But to her—someone who’s had to rely on others for income, that seems like a lot.
“I’ve told you this many times. Flight attendants only make an average salary. That means I make enough money for myself and my lifestyle,” I say, throwing my dirty uniform into the laundry basket. “I cannot keep supporting you.”
The force knocks it to the ground with a loud thud, and it’s all I need to grow more anxious for what’s coming on this phone call. They all follow the same pattern. She asks for money, and I respond reluctantly. She makes me feel like a terrible daughter. I give in, and then she attempts to make me feel like it’s my fault for even thinking about refusing her in the first place.
“That’s not fair for you to say that. I am your mother, and I’m all by myself. You know that. And don’t forget that I supported you while you were a child. The least you could do is pay your mother back by being there when I needyouto supportme,” she replies with an edge to her words.
“I have been helping you since I was able to get a job.” I weakly try to defend myself.
