“I’ll see you at home?”
“Of course.” I waved to Pop, blew a kiss to Fiona.
Then I walked back inside to settle up the tab and grab a few hours of rest.
I needed to go find my damn mother.
41
Max
Five hours later—after a shower and nap—I sipped from a cup of coffee outside of a dive bar in Queens. My mom hadn’t mentioned which friends she was staying with, but given the rowdy noise coming from inside, I guessed she was a favorite in there already.
That had always been easy for her. People usually liked her right away.
An hour ago, I’d finally gotten a text from her that said, I’m at Jake’s Bar and Grill. Want to spend your Sunday with your dear old mom?
No mention of the show or Pop or meeting Fiona. She didn’t ask if we’d made enough money or paid off his debt.
I pushed open the door, wincing at the darkness and the sticky floors. It was barely past noon, and I could see my mom sitting at a small table with a pitcher of beer, surrounded by a group of rowdy patrons.
“Max is here,” she shouted to her friends. And I still got that feeling—because she was my mom, and her smile was infectious. I still had that tiny hope that she’d have a good excuse for why she’d bailed. “You made it.”
Her friends gave me a warm welcome before heading to a pool table in the back. I shrugged out of my leather jacket, draped it on the chair. Then sank back into it, hand wrapped around my coffee. “Mom, it’s barely lunchtime.” I nodded at her pitcher. “Are you okay?”
She waved her hand. “Just havin’ fun. I’ve had a nice little vacation while I’ve been back.” She waved to the group playing pool. “Those are some old motorcycle buddies from Philly. Haven’t seen ’em in years, but they invited me to hang and drink with them today.”
I hadn’t seen her since our breakfast at the diner. That had, of course, surprised me. But I was busy with the concert, and busy obsessing over Fiona, so her flakiness hadn’t raised any red flags.
Now, I felt much too exhausted to temper my frustration.
I set my coffee on the table and leaned onto my elbows. “Mom, where the hell were you last night?”
Her brow creased. “Last night? My friends and I went out in Brooklyn, saw some music, got some food. Wait, why?”
“Are you serious?”
“Why are you in such a bad fucking mood this early in the morning?”
“So it’s the afternoon already,” I said, pissed. “And you were supposed to come see the concert I planned. The benefit show, for Pop? I reminded you like a hundred fucking times.”
She slapped her forehead, but the gesture lacked heat. “I knew I was forgetting something.”
“I called you all last night. Texted you. You didn’t see it?”
She shrugged again. “Ah, we were busy, Max. We were out, we were doing things, I didn’t check my phone.”
I scrubbed my hand down my face. Refocused. I’d meant what I said to Rafael and Mateo last night. Anxiety, nerves, they weren’t in my emotional rotation usually.
And anger?
The last time I was really pissed off I was probably a teenager. But I was furious and sad at the same time.
“You that mad? Christ, kid, what’s your deal today?”
I let out a steadying breath. Pictured Fiona sitting next to me—her quiet, pure confidence. This was my mother, and I loved her. I switched tactics and went with what usually worked for me.
Honesty.
“I’m mad because I haven’t seen you in a year,” I said, softening the edges of my tone. “So the least you could do, I thought, was come and support something I worked really hard on. Pop was gonna lose The Red Room, but we figured it out. It was a huge deal. And you bailed on me.”
She reached for my wrist and held it. “Hey. Hey I’m sorry, Max. I didn’t realize it was a big deal.”
I winced. Because that wasn’t an apology.
“I told you very clearly that it was,” I said. “Multiple times.”
I swallowed the words that seemed too honest, even for me.
Do you not care about me at all?
“I didn’t remember, okay? I’m sorry.”
My mother had left when I was only ten, so her behavior, to me, seemed like what a normal mom would do. I had no other mother to compare it with. Mateo’s mom was her night-and-day opposite but thinking critical thoughts when I was a little kid made me feel bad, like I was a traitor. It was hard enough to hear the words Pop said about her. And easy enough, apparently, for me to bury the negative memories I did have.
These past seven years, when we saw each other in person, I was just too happy to notice much. I mean, she’d always been her own person, and I had accepted that. The flakiness, the flimsy excuses, the carelessness—it had seemed like a personality quirk and not something that actually hurt people.
Was this what was in store for my future?
Was this what I was going to do to Fiona?
“I really wanted you to meet the woman I’m dating,” I continued. “She was looking forward to it.”
“Aren’t you flying out to Cali soon, though?”
I rubbed the back of my head. “Tonight.”
She whistled beneath her breath and poured herself another cup of beer. I sat and stewed in my own confusing emotions. I really, really wanted to go back to my second date with Fiona. Sharing a glass of wine, propped up in her bed, and talking for hours. It was new and hopeful and made me feel different.
This conversation made me feel the goddamn same.
“I take it you and Fiona are gonna keep dating?”
I was slow to confirm—stupid—and Mom nodded like she got it.
Her voice lowered. “Is that what you want?”
“Of course.”
“It’s not what you think you want?”
I narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean?”
She shoved the beer and the pitcher out of the way. “I let myself be convinced one time, once, that the whole white-picket-fence thing was for me. I knew I probably couldn’t do it, knew that I wasn’t cut out for the way other people lived their lives. Stressed out and worried all the time about their mortgages or their relationships.” She looked down at her hands, the humblest I’d seen her. “I know it hurt you when I left, Max. But I had to do it. I can’t be caged like that. And I wished every day that I’d left sooner, like maybe Pop wouldn’t be as mad or something.” She looked back up at me. “Ten years I stayed, and I was fucking miserable.”
I looked away, uncomfortable. Two weeks ago, I’d been watching the ocean in a new, pretty town and flirting with beautiful women I’d only ever see once. And yeah, there was a voice, a tug, in my brain, reminding me all the time of how much fun that was. Why change perfection?
“You don’t have to do what society says just because it says it.” Mom shrugged. “Don’t get it confused. It’s your life. I’m sure you like this Fiona, but are you sure you’ll still like being tied down from 3,000 miles away?”
The voice got louder, and I couldn’t quiet it this time. Her words were fueling a banked fire, and I needed it to go out. Because now, here in New York, I didn’t feel the way she felt. I wanted to be around Fiona all the time and kiss her and make her laugh and do things together.