“Just lucky, I guess,” I stated, being extra bold when I winked at her.
She tossed a piece of mushroom at me, as she should for being smart, but that was our dynamic. In fact, I got most of my sense of humor from her. Hell, if I could ever crack a smile across Ibrahim Mallick’s lips, former mayor and who had more scowls to his name than Royal Prinze. He’d cashed in quite a few in my direction as well, for being smart-mouthed and all that.
Mom frowned. “Ramses, don’t be mean. Those ‘busybodies’ as you put them were there for me. There for this family when we were going through the most difficult time period. They would have been there for you too had you let them, had you stayed.”
My gaze lifted from the romaine I was cutting, hesitating but only for a second. I angled the knife into leaves. “Are we talking about that now, too?”
She’d shared her opinion about Brown as well. Everyone basically had, so why not just give this thing another go?
A sigh fell from my mother’s lips. “I just worry about you. Duncan said you’re being resistant to his help, and I think we all were surprised to see you so ready to just jump in and get started working after you came back.”
“Why?” I’d been born into this, bred for it. This was my legacy, the plan, and she knew that.
Mom eyed me like it was obvious. “I don’t know, because you expressed zero interest every time your father actually tried to get you involved with the business. You basically went kicking and screaming every time he tried, and eventually, he just gave up. Gave up on you.”
“He was really good at that, wasn’t he?”
Another frown in my direction, and had she’d been close to me, she probably would have shoved that entire cutting board of pre-cut vegetables into my face. She lay the knife down. “I’m just saying you never wanted to get involved before, but that’s the first thing you did when you came back.”
“So, I’m trying to get my shit together,” I said. “Obviously.”
“Or you’re trying to prove a point,” she countered. “Prove a point to yourself, or him for that matter. Your dad?”
I smirked. “Ma, no offense. But I don’t give a fuck about that man.”
“Ramses,” she gritted.
“What? I don’t.” And why would I care about proving a goddamn point to him? I hated him. I growled. “I don’t care about trying to please Dad.”
“All right then,” she said, like she didn’t believe me at all, which frustrated me. She placed her hands on the counter. “You’re obviously struggling with something, and it’s been known that your father has loomed over your life for a very long time. So long and in so many ways.”
Since she was right about that, I said nothing, my knife rocking back into romaine. I cut a little while more before I had a healthy stack, which I deposited quickly into a bowl. I looked up to find my mother’s gaze on me, her hands cuffing her blouse and her wristwatch blinging. Mom was successful in her own right, a hotel heiress actually, before she met and married my father. Her passions mostly surrounded her love for history, though, which was why she’d become a professor and later a dean at Pembroke-U.
“It’s made you irritable with the world—clearly,” she ventured on, raising her hand. “Cop a continued attitude with me over the years and is probably responsible for some of your—I’m sorry, Ramses—piss-poor decisions you’ve been making as of late.”
Piss-poor decisions. I couldn’t help but smirk again. “So we’re back to the Brown thing again. If I knew this was going to be such an issue, I would have just stayed.”
I could have. The school hadn’t been involved with what happened or anything. Hell, they hadn’t even known about what went down.
Our family’s people had taken care of that.
In the end, I’d chosen to leave, easier and apparently my MO. I was an all-star at avoidance, and our family’s attorneys had advised me to cut all ties anyway. Mom had also secured me a place back at Pembroke, so there was no reason to stare my “piss-poor” decisions in the face anyway.
I never would have come back knowing I’d be poked and prodded, though. I’d gotten quite a few texts from December as well. She and Prinze had come back from their shortened honeymoon in Aruba to be back for the start of senior year, and the first thing she’d done was text me to meetup. To talk and I’d been avoiding her like this talk with my mom.
“You know that what happened at Brown wasn’t the real issue. You’re channeling, son.” She squeezed her arm. “Acting out? This is how you’re dealing with your crap with your dad. You’ve never talked about anything. Never dealt with anything. Brown is the end result, not the issue.”
“The issue being Dad?”
“I think so.”
“So, what do you advise, doctor?” I asked, my mom not that kind of a doctor. She had her doctorate, but definitely not anything medically related.
Her brows narrowed. “To start, how about someone to help with the attitude?”
“Therapy?” I’d seen enough therapists for a lifetime. Especially after Dad had gotten his ass locked up. “I’m not seeing a therapist.”
“I’m just saying you should talk to someone. You know, maybe give you closure? Help you deal with some of these changes in your life.”
Someone who could bill me hundreds of dollars an hour just to nod their head and pacify me. I’d done the song and dance before and no thanks.
Mom dropped her shoulders. “Or maybe you should just talk to the source. You know your father asks about you. He asks about you all the time.”
Because she was what? Talking to him? My gaze jerked in her direction. “You’re talking to him?”
She nodded like that was normal, like that was okay. She shrugged. “It’s how I’m getting my own closure.”
“I don’t believe this.” Enraged now, livid. I shoved the food away. “So, what does that mean? You talking to him?”
“It means just as I said.” She lifted her chin. “I’ve been seeing him. It was advised by my therapist, and it’s been helping.”
Well, then maybe she should get a new goddamn therapist because no one in their right mind would ever advise her to see that man. He was cold, poison, and I didn’t want her anywhere near him. “I don’t want you going to see him.”
Her laughter touched the air as she pushed the veggies into their separate containers for the tacos. “You don’t have a say in that.”
“Well, I should.” I growled. “What the hell, Mom?”
“You won’t talk to me like that,” she stated and shot me such a hard eye I thought she’d send me to my old bedroom, simply one room of many in this mansion she’d kept after the divorce. Located in central Maywood Heights, the place was my childhood home, and I used to resent the place, so big and expansive. My friends loved it, of course. It had a game room and a movie theater, but all the toys had been nothing but virtual babysitters, a place to get lost in and a way to keep me quiet and out of my dad’s things. He’d never dealt with me, leaving Mom to that but she’d had her life too. She couldn’t be with me every hour of the day. She had her own goals, her own passions, and I never resented her for that.