Page 81 of Wild Ever After
Scarlett has to go into the office a few hours later, but I stay at the coffee shop, downing copious amounts of caffeine and trying to write. Trying because not a whole lot of words are being written.
When my mom calls a second time, I decide that talking to her is slightly less painful than staring at a blank screen and answer. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hi.” That one word, or rather the way she says it, has me immediately on high-alert. “Am I too old for pink walls?”
“What’s wrong?” The only time she gets a burning desire to paint the walls or buy new bedroom furniture is when she’s single.
She huffs a little laugh. “Can’t a mother just call to check in on her daughter?”
“Yes, you’re too old for pink walls.”
“I figured as much.”
“What happened with Kenny?”
“He moved out last week.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I’m calling you now.” Translation, she’s spent the past week playing Fleetwood Mac records and burning sage in the house.
“I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.” She says it like it’s the universe’s fault, instead of hers or Kenny’s. “What are you up to?”
“Working.”
“Still?”
I check the time. It’s only five. She’d probably be appalled to know I work most nights until six or seven, and that’s just the hours I put in at the office. “I’m almost done.”
I close my laptop and stand and stretch.
“Big plans this weekend?”
“No. Probably just working.”
“You shouldn’t work so much. You’re young. You should be out, having fun.”
I make a noise that isn’t exactly agreement.
“I miss you,” she says.
“Maybe we could meet up for lunch sometime this weekend?”
“Or you could come here and I could make something for us.”
“Yeah,” I say, not exactly on board, but then I think through what my weekend will be like if I stay. Hanging with Declan and working on the house. Lazy mornings and late nights. It sounds great, which should have me rushing home to him right now, but I still can’t get a read on this situation.
I like him. I like him even more than I thought possible. And I think he genuinely likes me too, but we’re only two months into this thing. When we got married, I thought the worst possible outcome was us hating each other by the six-month mark. Now I’m more scared I won’t want it to end.
“You know what. How about I come for the weekend?”
“Seriously?” The last time I stayed overnight at my mom’s house, I think I was nineteen, so the surprise in her voice is warranted.
“We can paint and shop for new bedding and furniture. We’ll go all out.”
And maybe while we’re doing it, I can figure out how to date my husband.
