175
“Bambina,” he whispers back, “You got the beauty too. More than your mother did.” He leans down and quickly kisses me on the mouth before moving off to accept the serving dishes she’s holding out to us. I can’t help but smile at his back, a warm feeling washing over me because I know he isn’t one to make empty compliments. Jake really does think I’m beautiful.
“Take them to the table,” she grins, nodding toward the living room at the dinette set in the small room. Jake carries the cooked chicken and salad bowl over, already set up with other dishes and plates. Coming out of the tiny kitchen, she walks up to me and lightly kisses me on the cheek.
I stiffen automatically because we don’t do this kind of touchy-feely stuff! Feeling awkward, I reach out and pat her on the shoulder before swiftly moving toward Jake and sliding into the nearest chair, draping my jacket behind me.
“My beautiful daughter is home,” she gushes toward me before choosing the seat facing me and sitting down. Jake sits beside me after putting his leather jacket on the back of his chair. He seems to occupy this space a little too much; it’s always been a small table in a small room, and he looks massive in it. We bang elbows as we both reach for a plate in the center of the table and laugh.
“Ouch,” I say, rubbing my arm. He pulls it up automatically and kisses me where we connected before handing me a plate.
“Sorry, Bambina.” He winks at me, and I catch my mother watching us closely with an oddly serious look. She looks away when our eyes connect and continues dishing out food for us.
Strange.
“I’m really glad you’re here. Both of you.” She smiles without looking up. I hand Jake the salad bowl after dishing my own and watch her. I feel like there is so much to say, yet I don’t have the words at all.
Where would I start? Twenty-six years of pent-up emotions and accusations, yet here we are, acting like my coming home for a weekend with my boyfriend is normal. Not that she’s even asked if that is what he is now instead of my boss. Maybe that’s what that look was all about. Perhaps it’s obvious.
Jake digs into his food. He’s normally a master at idle chit-chat and dominating a conversation. Instead of being his normally chatty self, he’s being quiet, leaving me to take the next step, and for once, I would rather ultra-sociable Carrero would just step in.
“I’m not sure how long we’ll be staying,” I mutter to break the silence.
Maybe it’s best to say it now and not let her think the whole weekend would be ‘catching up.’
I take a forkful of my chicken and watch the frown develop on her face. I try to ignore it.
“Well, even being here for a quick visit is enough for me,” she says. “I do miss you, Emma.” She finally looks up at me and smiles warmly. I grimace back, but I know it doesn’t reach my eyes. We’re doing what we always do: playing nice and polite in front of other people and pretending there’re no issues.
Being back here, in this apartment, in this town, already I can feel myself closing up, with old Emma mannerisms pushing in, the wall coming up between us, the controlled mask of indifference resurfacing—the one that Jake spent months peeling away. I don’t want to go back to being that person, to who she was, back to being that empty, cold, and feelingless shell of myself, the person who let no one in and never experienced real emotion. That girl is gone.
I was stupid to think I could come here and do the whole heart-to-heart thing with her. Being faced with her acting as though life is so fricking normal reminds me that she will never see my side. She will never take any blame for how I turned out, and why would she? Here I am with my billionaire boyfriend doting over me, dressed in expensive clothes, and living the high life in New York—to her, she’s a success as a mother.
I’m jolted out of my head by Jake’s warm hand on my back, and I glance at him; he’s studying my expression and frowning lightly. I realize I’ve been silently staring at my empty fork, probably with a blank expression, as I mulled things over. My mother is chatting about nothing of importance, unaware that neither of us is listening. Jake strokes my back gently, relaxing his hand when I continue eating, and returns to his food, a silent little message between us that he knows I’m not okay being here. He smiles softly at me, and a small look in his eye tells me he loves me. I inhale slowly and pull it back down with the calmness he gives me, that peaceful place where I spend most of my time.
“So, Mom, how are things at the homeless shelter nowadays?” I interject to try and connect with her, to try and make things less awkward for Jake.
Calling her ‘mom’? Since when?
“Good, really good. I managed to get some funding help, and with the city's volunteers and grant, I have the place ticking over well. We managed to convince some food stores in Chicago to donate the food with expired sell-by dates instead of sending them to the trash.” She grins, obviously proud of herself. She turns her smile on Jake impressively. “And the donation from the Carrero Corporation went toward fixing up the building and redecorating the shared sleeping rooms. Thank you so much for that, Jake.”
He smiles back, but I blink.
What? When the hell did Jake donate anything to my mother’s charity?
I glance at him, questioning with my eyes, and he shrugs. I’m irritated by this little new piece of information, something else he swooped in and solved with a checkbook, something else he didn’t tell me about.
I glare down at my plate and push my food around; I’ve no idea why I feel so touchy lately. My emotions have been up and down for the last few days. I’ve no reason to be mad about this. Really, it’s nothing; Jake’s company donates to charities annually as part of a tax relief move. Of course, he would contribute to hers. She’s my mother, and he loves me. He probably didn’t even write the cheque himself, just forwarded her details to Finance to be added to our list of preferred causes. I know because it used to be my job to do it. I sigh heavily and try to force more food into my mouth, although I have zero appetite. Being here is just making me irrational.
“I’m glad it helped.” He smiles, his eyes on me, but I ignore him.
Finally, fed up with how I’m feeling, I get up, saying, “I’ll make the coffee,” and walk off toward the kitchen without looking at either of them.
I keep my back turned as I lay out cups. I can hear my mother carrying on the conversation about the shelter, but Jake sounds only half interested. His replies are polite, yet he’s not conversing. I glance back and catch him looking at me every few seconds. He’s trying to read me and gauge what’s going on in my head. I look away and close my eyes.
This is fucked-up part of me that he doesn’t see as much in New York—old Emma rules here in Chicago. Her moods are all over the place, her temper short, and the suffocating air of this wretched apartment makes her agitated.
I carry the cups over and put them down in front of them, returning for my own before I finally sit back down. I push my uneaten food away, curbing the urge to start tapping my nails on the table. There’s growing energy of restlessness inside me, that familiar pang to run far away from here.
“So, Sophie seems happy, doesn’t she?” My mother points this question at Jake. I bristle at the mention of her name, my protectiveness of her standing to attention. My mother needs to stay out of her life.
“She does, yeah. She is blossoming with the Huntsbergers.” There’s obvious affection in his voice, and just like me, he’s been keeping tabs on her and calls her once a week to check-in.
“Such a lovely girl, such a sad past. She deserved better,” my mother sighs innocently. I stare up at her in complete shock. With a snort of disbelief, I choke on my coffee and begin coughing badly as Jake tries to console me with pats on my back and circular rubs. Finally, I clear my lungs and gasp for air.
“You think Sophie deserved better?” I ask, my voice holding a slight hint of disdain.
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