“Give your old man a break. Love is…complicated.”
An image of the woman he had dinner with all those weeks ago flashes before my eyes. She looked heartbroken over him––that’s certainly true. I wonder if that’s who he’s thinking about right now. A gorgeous woman whose heart he broke. I wonder if it’s regret I see on his face.
“It’s really not, though. Love doesn’t have different rules for different people. Being there for someone you say you love is part of the deal.”
He tips his head back and watches me under hooded eyes. “Some people can’t switch it on and off.”
“You speaking from experience?” I dare ask. I don’t know where I’m finding the nerve to be this forward. Maybe it’s the dark. Maybe I’m finally finding the courage I lost that night four years ago. Either way, there’s no turning back now.
He hooks an arm up, his hand sliding under his head. His bicep bulges, straining against the sleeve of the t-shirt he’s wearing. “I don’t know how to switch it on.”
That’s a lie if ever I’ve heard one. Either he’s lying to me or he’s lying to himself.
“You know what your problem is, Hughes?”
He schools the smile trying to grow on his face while his eyes return to the bottom of the tumbler cradled in his palm. “You’re gonna psychoanalyze me? Let’s hear it,” he says. Slowly, he raises the glass to his lips and wraps them around the edge. “The suspense is killing me.”
No one who memorizes quotes like the one he just recited has a hard time falling in love. Not buying it. “You’re a romantic.”
His eyes flicker up to me. There’s a glimmer of surprise in there that instantly gets stashed away. Even this is too much. He won’t allow anyone to see anything too personal. Everything’s locked up so tight I’m exhausted just thinking about it.
“Sweetheart, I’m Irish. It’s practically a requirement.”
I get up and smooth the wrinkles out of my short skirt. If I stay any longer, my mouth is liable to get me into serious trouble. Shane’s eyes travel slowly and deliberately up my bare legs, all the way to my face.
“Are you?”
“A romantic?”
He nods.
“Yes,” I answer truthfully, a sweet ache resonating in my chest. “Takes one to know one.”
“Cruella loved the pictures you sent of Aidan with the mini ponies running after him,” Jess tells me. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard her speak so nicely about anyone who isn’t a client. I’m still kinda shocked.”
“She did?” I’m genuinely surprised and a little bit proud of myself. “What did she say?”
“She said the pics were ‘usable’ and it was ‘nice to discover you weren’t a total fuck-up.’”
I snort and switch the phone to the other ear as I shake out my hair. For once, it’s styled. With all the styling paste I applied to the ends, the waves are behaving. Parted to the side, they’re falling nicely over my shoulder.
I can’t believe I’m doing this for a woman who abandoned me, but I’m a glutton for punishment and still have mommy issues at twenty-nine, which is why I agreed to meet her for lunch a few days after I saw my father.
You can’t fault me. Deep down, nobody wants to believe that their parent would rather spend time with strangers than with their own child. Plus I’m still searching for signs that I may have misjudged her for the past twenty-three years. Unfortunately, I have yet to see any evidence.
“Aidan’s been a surprise. I can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but I’m going to miss the big beautiful dork when he leaves.”
“What about his brother?”
Shane… Somehow along the way, I’ve managed to gain a friend. I think? I’m not saying I’ve stopped having dirty dreams about him; those are still very much happening. But it’s no longer just a lust thing. Which is probably worse. Everyday I don’t see him now feels like an eternity. The problem is that although my heart is a romantic, my head is a pragmatist, and I don’t see how this ends well for me. And yet it definitely will end in four weeks and counting.
“You mean the brother who’s a famous writer? That brother? Way to let me get blindsided.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you live in a place with no electricity and cable. I thought you knew.”
“Some of us don’t eat, sleep, and breathe the entertainment industry.”
“You’re right. We can’t all be that lucky,” my insane best friend says, snickering.
“Wish me luck. I’m meeting Athena for lunch.”
“You don’t need luck. You need to remember that everything you’ve accomplished––which is a lot––you did with no help from her. Don’t give her any power over you. She doesn’t deserve it.”
“I’ll call you later if I need an ass-kicking.”
“Ass-kicking is my specialty.”
We say our goodbyes and end the call. I step out of the house, keys in hand, hobo bag over my shoulder, and head for the baby blue Chevy pickup truck. The mini cotton dress I decided to wear today, white with embroidered flowers along the hem, has a peasant top and a full skirt that goes perfectly with my red cowboy boots. I grabbed my jean jacket in case it gets chilly later. People always underestimate how cold Southern California can get at night when the Santa Anas aren’t blowing.
Aidan promised to finish replacing a few of the rotten boards on the large pasture fence while I’m gone. Seeing me cross the gravel driveway to the truck, he tips back his straw hat, grins, and whistles. In case you’re wondering, no, he still hasn’t put on a shirt. He says he’s working on a Saint Tropez tan in Ojai. As for the theatrics, this is a man constantly surrounded by women who are the standard for beauty, so all I have to say to that is… eye-roll.
I decide to meet Athena someplace neutral. I can’t have her come to the ranch––that is out of the question. There’s a good chance she’d see Aidan and find a way to use him to her advantage.
The Westfall Mall is forty-eight minutes away. I get to the restaurant ten minutes late and overly nervous. A text from Athena comes in, alerting me that she’s already at the restaurant, seated toward the back. I walk into the Cheesecake Factory wiping my hands on the folds of my dress.
The restaurant is busy and loud. Across the dining room, I spot her wavy hair, so much like my own. Dark blonde with bright gold streaks running through it. Athena smiles widely and waves me over. The closer I get, weaving between tables stuffed with people, the closer I am to realizing she’s not alone.
There’s a man seated next to her. He’s tall and thin with a thick head of golden blond hair. His smile is warm and takes up his entire face, splitting his darker blond beard into two halves.
My mother looks essentially the same except five years older. That was the last time I saw her in person, when she was passing through L.A. and wanted to meet Jaime. He liked her; that should’ve raised red flags.
Her shoulder-length blonde hair is the same. Just a little more dull with a little more silver threaded in. A few more laugh lines around her mouth and at the corners of her dark blue eyes. The beauty mark at the edge of her mouth is the same one I see when I look in the mirror. Seeing my mother is like looking into my future. Although without the tchotchkes she’s wearing around her neck and on her ears.