And the smile she gave me was so warm and so maternal I found myself forgiving her immediately.
Like always.
“I would like that,” I said as a tornado of butterflies invaded my stomach. My palms went slick, and my pulse raced. “A lot, actually. Pop thinks the world of her, obviously.”
“Huh.” She ate the last French fry and cocked her head. “I really don’t remember them.”
I thought about that picture Pop kept, of me and him on the day that reporter was snapping pictures for the newspaper. That she’d left for Atlantic City, missed a big night for him while happily leaving me without any adult.
My mom was, according to her, living in Detroit with a new boyfriend when I graduated from high school. That big party Pop threw at The Red Room, the night where I’d sat on that fire escape with my best friends and dreamed of our future, well, she hadn’t been there. It was complicated for me to remember Pop’s quiet anger about her not showing up.
It was even more complicated to remember how sad I’d been, to stare out in the audience as I gripped my diploma and didn’t see her. I had desperately, desperately, wanted my mother to be there. Had even entertained a stupid little notion that she’d show up as a surprise.
As usual, she’d called the next morning and smoothed over my hurt feelings with her usual charm. And I’d tucked that memory away because I hated thinking about it.
I struggled to refocus on our talk. “It’s… uh, it’s all good,” I stumbled. “You’ll like her.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Thoughts of Fiona flooded my brain, washed away my irritation. “She’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. She’s brilliant and really fucking smart. Way smarter than me. Passionate. Funny as hell and really confident and totally unafraid to go after what she wants. And she’s beautiful, just so…” I stopped, trailing off. I was babbling, and Mom was looking at me like I’d grown a lizard head.
“Wow,” she said. “I guess you do like her.”
I shrugged, looked out the window. “It’s whatever.”
“Are you going to L.A., or are you staying here, though?”
“I’m going to L.A.,” I said. “Don’t worry. My feet are already itchy.”
And that right there was a real goddamn lie. To my own mother, who built her life philosophy around not giving a shit and doing what she wanted, honesty and all.
“Sounds complicated.” There was so much judgment in her, my jaw ached from clenching it.
“It’s not,” I said. “Me and Fiona, we understand each other.”
I pushed my cup aside and placed my elbows on the table. “Why don’t you come to the benefit show? It’s in five days, and it’ll be a ton of fun. Everyone will be there, and the music will be great. I’ll talk to Pop, but I’m sure he’d be fine if you were there. Then you can meet Fiona.”
She nodded quickly. “Absolutely. I’d love to.”
“Yeah?”
“You think your own mother won’t show up for your concert?”
I rubbed my jaw. Thought about standing on that stage, searching for her face. “I know you forget sometimes,” I said, as gently as I could. “But it would really mean a lot to me. To see you there. To support Pop and me too. And you’ll see when you meet Fiona. You’ll love her.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She patted my hand. “I will be there. I promise.”
I squeezed her hand back. “It means a lot to me. Seeing you, having you be here. I miss you a lot, Mom. I wish we saw each other more.”
I couldn’t really read the expression on her face at all. But she said, “I always miss you. I’m never far. I’m only a phone call away.”
I nodded. Held my tongue again. Because that wasn’t entirely true. I might have fucked up with Mateo, and I never called Pop enough. But I always felt connected to my mom on my travels, like we were the only two people who understand this alternative way of life.
So I did call her. She often didn’t call me back.
“That’s true,” I said. “Plus, you’re here now for a bit. Everything’s okay, right?”
“Passing through,” she interrupted. “Seeing some friends. Seeing you. I figured if I was going to head back up north, I couldn’t not stop and see ya.”
She called for the check and smiled nice and big. “I’ll be there at the show. I promise. And I can’t wait.”
36
Fiona
On the morning of the benefit show, Max and I stood in the center of The Red Room, gazing up at the empty stage. It was strange, viewing the club in these hushed hours. It looked naked, almost vulnerable, without the crowds of people and surges of sound.
Thirty-five years of musical history lived in these walls. Thirty-five years of dancing, singing, laughter; thirty-five years of rock music howling at the moon and declaring itself to be alive. In our teenaged years, Max and I had orbited each other in this tiny, important space, without any understanding of how we’d come hurtling back into each other’s lives.
He entwined our hands, squeezed my fingers.
“You wouldn’t want to meet me in the supply closet, would you?” he whisper-growled at my ear. I burst out laughing before giving him a smacking kiss on the mouth.
“I told you us planning this event would be an issue,” I said smugly.
He narrowed his eyes playfully. “I see no issue with the time we’ve spent together, Fiona Quinn.”
I lowered my voice. “You fucked me, twice, before breakfast this morning, friend.”
His laughter was warm and oh-so-sexy. “That doesn’t seem like an issue. That seems like my new favorite way to start the day. Making you come twice before your coffee.”
My cocky bad boy had, of course, perfected the art of sleepy oral sex, and this morning had been no different. After kissing me breathless, dawn light peeking in through the window, he’d burrowed beneath the covers and planted himself between my legs with a dedication that belied the early hour. As morning motivation went, it couldn’t be beat.
I’d been drowning at work the past five days and working long hours so I could take the day of the concert off. We hadn’t been able to have traditional dates. Max, however, had shown up every night, well past dinner time—usually strolling into my apartment with a smile on his face and take-out in his hand. He made sure I was properly fed, with wine and good music and a foot massage for good measure.
And then he made sure I was properly fucked.
The sexual intensity between the two of us hadn’t abated but grown stronger.
I had a feeling his departure for California tomorrow night had something to do with that.
The reality of his leaving hit me in the gut. I swallowed past it uneasily, but let Max wrap his arm around my shoulders and tug me against his chest for a silly hug.
“Yeah. The idea that you two were just friends was the funniest shit I’ve heard all year.” Mateo arrived, three coffees in hand. “And buenos días, happy Red Room day.”
Max smirked, took the coffee offered to him. We were all in workout clothes, ready for a morning of setup and prep work. I’d come with every organizational office supply I owned—including walkie-talkies.