Page 17 of Enemies to French Kisses
It’s two in the morning back home. I’m already at the office. I can’t deal with him now, but I can’t not be there for him either.
“What’s this about?” I type quickly. “Heading into a meeting but can reply later.”
“Not about anything. Have a good meeting.”
Brian is a grown man. I have to remind myself of that often, but he’s well into his twenties now, not the scared fourteen-year-old he was when Mom took off. He was fourteen but looked about nine, always short for his age and with a baby face. And he relied on me. I was sixteen, the adult. The one who had to raise him when Mom took off with her new beau.
“I’ll pay for everything,” she’d said. “You won’t have to worry about a thing.”
As if money could replace her presence.
“You’re a big girl now, practically a woman. And a good one at that. You’ll be fine, Laura. Auntie Linda will check in on you.”
And off she went with Clint, the man who had swept her off her feet despite the twenty years between them.
Leaving me and Brian on our own in the tiny Sage bungalow.
Good riddance, I’d thought. We’re better off without her.
No one is better off without their Momma when their Momma does what a Momma has to do. But that wasn’t our Momma.
I’ve tried to forgive her, and some days I think I have.
But on days like today, when I’m in Paris and Brian is in Sage, and she’s who-knows-where, the old resentment boils up.
A voice pulls me out of the old musings.
“Rolled out from the wrong side of the bed.”
Him.
“What do you know about it? You have no idea what’s going on with my life, much less which side of the bed I got out on,” I snap while staring him down. He takes a pace back, holding his hands up as if to show he has no weapon.
“I meant me. I had a rough night.”
He drops into the chair with an abnormally large cup of coffee, considering he’s an espresso type.
“Oh, right.” I can do better than that. “I thought you meant me.”
“I figured, judging by the way you nearly bit my head off.”
Even though I should, I can’t bring myself to say sorry. So it happens that thisoncehe didn’t mean it. But there’s all those other times he takes a convenient dig at me about what I’m wearing, or what I say, or my mispronunciation of the word ‘dessus’—which happens to be very complicated for a native English speaker.
Maybe this once I owe him an apology, but I’ll tuck that in an IOU and wait for a better day.
I have to admit, I did get out of the wrong side of the bed, literally. I’d completely forgotten where I was and rolled off the right side of the bed, the side I have at home.
And I smashed my head hard enough into the wall that it woke up Gina on the upper bunk across from me. Gina is a heavy sleeper—that was no small feat.
“I’ve got the adjusted prototypes drawing.” Vincent rolls in like a tornado, dropping folders and papers around him. But for Innov’ Biotech, he’s just fine. Better than fine, he’s brilliant. Just not very well organized.
Marc leans over and grabs one of the folders that had slid under the conference table, smacking his head on the way back up.
A spit-like laugh escapes my lips.
He rubs the back of his head. “My injury is funny to you?”
I point to the lump on my forehead. “Only because I did something similar myself this morning.”
