Page 1 of Wild Heart
1
“This is the last time, Summer.”
This morning my mother's face looks like a cross between a bulldog chewing a wasp and a supermodel. Her brow is wrinkle free and glossy. I know she’s trying to frown down at me because her nostrils flare a little. “You’ve missed another job interview.” She dramatically pronounces the word ‘another’. Her over emphasis isn’t missed on me. “Do you know how many strings your father had to pull to get you that opportunity?”
Pink talons rest on her angular hips. She is refined and tasteful in a flouncy dress with pouted lips of disapproval. I’d seen that look a hundred times over.
“Sorry. I got distracted last night. I should’ve been home earlier, but…”
“Save it, Summer.” Her sharp tone cuts off the usual attempt to justify my failure to join adulthood. “I’m done with this wild-child nonsense. You’ve pushed me too far this time.”
Here we go. The empty threats to send me away to the wilderness to live with kooky Papa Sawyer in America. We both know she’ll never send me away. Never… ever.
“I’ll behave. I promise.” I smile, sweetly batting my lashes. My aim is to twang her heartstrings because I’m her only child, and a wild one at that.
Mother’s torso folds so she can inspect my fully clothed disgrace as I lay in a heap on the sheets with mascara stains on my pillowcase. “Not this time, young lady. I’ve already called him.”
A disbelieving giggle bubbles in my chest. “Sure you did.”
“Then, I booked your flight.” She’s really going to town with this whole fake intervention thing.
After university, I sort of decided that fun was better than responsibility. Let’s face it, I’ve been in school for the majority of my life. Now my parents want me to jump straight into a job with an unflattering ball and chain called early starts and long hours. With schedules. Meetings. People telling me what to do. Blah, blah. Hashtag boring.
When I turned twenty-one, a few years ago, the first payment of my trust fund kicked in. Cha-ching. Who needs a nine to five mundane routine when there’s plenty of pound signs stacked up? I’m doubting Dolly Parton really works those hours. Come on, she’s rich too.
“Look, I’ll not go out for a week. How about that? Like, self-imprisonment. No partying, just takeout food and Love Island. Think of it as 168 hours of community service.” My voice lifts with a hopeful lilt. “I’ll paint your toenails.” I hate feet, even if they were my mother’s, but I am willing to suck it up for the sake of forgiveness. Anyway, a few nights of watching ripped blokes in swim shorts is just what I need to sooth this hangover gifted from tequila. Maybe I can sneak in my bestie, Ellie, to keep me company. It’s our tradition to watch the first episode together, with champagne, strawberries and an eyeful of hotness.
The weird grunting noise that leaves my mother's throat is a bit shocking, given she is always so poised and polite. “The tickets are booked. You’re leaving tomorrow. Papa Sawyer is expecting you.” Why is she waving her phone in my face? The font blurs, and my head thumps. “See. Booked. You will respect him, or we’ll cut off your inheritance, Summer. Do you hear me? At the rate you’re spending money, your trust fund will be gone by Christmas.”
Suddenly the shaky phone screen stills, and there it is. The proof. The dates. The single flight to America. A prearranged sentence to stay with my mother’s, father's younger brother. Yeah, work that out in your brain post nightclub shots and three hours of sleep.
“You didn’t?” Please tell me this is a nightmare. I pinch my thigh and wince when it hurts. “This is a sick joke, right?”
“This is all too real. It will be the making of you. Real life, with real responsibilities and real consequences. No parties, day long shopping sprees, alcohol fueled lunch dates, and so-called friends who lead you astray.”
I can take full credit for my own antics. The girls have nothing to do with it. I just like to have fun. What woman in her twenties doesn’t? Ellie and I have spent many afternoons sipping champers in our favorite restaurant instead of job hunting. We’re like soul sisters. Ladies who lunch. Girls who party. Women who rate the best nail technicians together.
As I prop up onto my elbows, I blink with big pleading doe eyes. “I’m sure you can get a refund on the ticket. I’ll miss you.” My head weighs heavily, drawn backward to the pillow.
“I won’t miss hearing you fall through the door at five a.m. and wondering if you’ll be a spoiled brat for the rest of your life.” This is actually happening. She is practically packing my bags with her narrowed eyes as they scan my disorganized room. “And you need to learn how to tidy up after yourself. I mean, who doesn’t rinse the sink after they’ve spat out toothpaste?”
“I do?” Did I… I can’t remember. Surely running tap water would wash away the residue.
Her mouth quirks when she catches sight of my dirty feet. I had to take off my sandals in the taxi because the straps were like meat slicers. Did I carry them into the house last night? Aww, well, they hurt too much anyway. I’ll just buy another pair.
“I’ve sent Papa Sawyer money to fund your accommodations for three months. I had to make it worth his while. You’ll have to earn the rest and help out around the house.”
My tongue is dry when I lick my lips and draw up to a sitting position. “I can’t believe this. I’m going to call Dad. He’ll not let you send me away.” A niggle quickly vanquishes that thought. He wouldn’t notice my swift departure.
“You better believe he will, sweetheart. Your father is with me on this.”
Sure he is. The guy is a workaholic who thinks I should have started work the day I elegantly popped out of the womb. Well, okay, let's be fair, he would’ve given me a day to learn how to breathe and focus first. He’s not really that bad, more of a stranger, or a distant voice on the end of a phone. I rarely see him face to face. Regardless of my crappy relationship with my father, he isn’t the one standing in my disorganized room, banishing me from the family home. Ostracizing me from everything I know and love. Forcing me to sleep with smelly cattle, in an old barn swathed in cobwebs, in the arsehole of nowhere, halfway across the world. All imperfectly packaged in a shitty small town where nightmares are made. My skin literally lifts as the hairs prickle with anxiety.
“What if I say no? I’m a grown woman with rights!” My huffing and puffing isn’t fooling anyone.
Mother wraps her arms across her chest, and I feel the bad news ooze from her vibes before she even utters a word. “Your bank account has been frozen. You, my dear, are penniless until you come to your senses.”
My heartbeat picks up pace to a hideous staccato stutter, and my breathing stops as I inhale sharply. “You wouldn’t!” I barely squeak.
