Page 47 of Snowed In
Christian and his hands on my cheeks. Christian and his cheerful hello as he tucked me into his side. Christian and this bizarre idea.
He’s holding up his end of the deal. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he freaked. I didn’t exactly give him any warning. But he went with it exactly like he promised he would. He stood beside me, and he didn’t let me down. Which means I can’t let him down. Which means we’re doing this. We’re actually doing this. And it all suddenly seems so real.
I roll back my shoulders as I wait on the porch, surprised Mam didn’t come out to meet us. But as soon as the bell goes, the door flies open, revealing the woman herself standing in the hallway.
“Were you lurking?” I ask, as her eyes flick behind me.
“No.”
Yes. “Mam. You could have come out.”
“I wasn’t lurking,” she protests. “I was waiting for you in the living room.”
Lurking. But I let it slide as she steps forward to embrace me, the jasmine scent of her perfume tickling my nose. It’s the same one she’s worn all my life, and just like that, I could be seven years old again, breathing her in.
I was obsessed with my mother when I was a child. To mini-Megan, she was this magical, movie star–esque figure who was always the best-dressed person in the room. Even when it was just the three of us at home for the night, she’d be made up to perfection, like she was ready for visitors at a moment’s notice. And we had lots of visitors. We had friends and family and colleagues and acquaintances, a revolving door of people who would come for an afternoon, a night, a summer.
Emily O’Sullivan is a social creature, someone who would throw a party every night if she could. But she’s also a good parent. My abiding memories of her are of someone who was patient and kind and never raised her voice until my brother and I turned into moody teenagers. She wanted us to find happiness, no matter what that looked like, and even though I know she doesn’t always understand the decisions I make, she tries to, which is all that I can ask for.
“Welcome home,” she says, pulling back to look at me. Her once-brown hair is now a soft shade of gray, and she’s cut it since the last time I saw her, so it curls around her ears. She looks older, but carefully so, with Botox and makeup and something a little more surgical that she’ll probably tell me about after two glasses of wine. “How was the drive?”
“We hit some traffic, but it was okay.”
“That’s good,” she says, examining me as though searching for any changes. “I made up your bed,” she adds, taking my biggest suitcase as I toe off my sneakers. “And left you out some towels. Are you hungry?”
“We ate on the way.”
The place is spotless, as always. She’d probably collapse if she saw the state Frankie and I keep the apartment in. I was never very good at tidying up beyond the basics, preferring a spring clean on Sunday morning withMamma Mia!on the television.
Here, the only bit of clutter I can see is through the doors to the living room, where her laptop lies open on the desk, surrounded by folders. She ran her own interior design business for thirty years, and though she’s technically retired, she still does a lot of freelance work around the country. Says she’d get restless otherwise. Do something stupid like sell her belongings and live in the woods. I presumed it was an exaggeration, but sometimes with my mother, I can never truly tell.
“Is that a new chair?” I ask, eyeing the latest velvet piece in the corner.
“It is,” she says proudly. “Aidan didn’t notice.”
“Where is brother dearest?” I ask, stretching out my back. I feel stiff from sitting in the car for so long.
“Catching up with some friends,” she says. “He said not to wait up.”
Of course he did.
“Sit in it,” she says, ushering me over to the chair. I acquiesce because she takes these things seriously.
“Very comfortable,” I proclaim, and she beams at me.
“A girl in Kildare makes them. I wasn’t sure at first, but it’s different, isn’t it?”
“Nice different,” I assure her, and she nods, even as a hint of worry enters her expression.
“What?”
“Should I have invited him in?”
“Who? Oh, Christian?”
“I didn’t mean to lurk,” she says. “I just didn’t want to crowd you. It’s the first time you’ve wanted to introduce me to one of your boyfriends since—”
“It’s not an introduction,” I interrupt, uncomfortable. “You’ve met him a bunch of times.”
