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“Mom asked about you today. Asked if I could see you, which she already knew I was going to, and that if you could give her the courtesy of coming home to arrange dinners.”
“Rhianna only has to do one,” I tell him.
“Rhianna isn’t the golden child.”
“I heard that,” Rhianna yells out from her room.
“Like it’s something you didn’t already know,” Beckham yells back. Then he turns around to me. His face is bruised, and his lip is split. I reach out to touch it, but he shakes his head.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” he says, defensively.
“Beckham.”
“Anderson has been telling people things about you.”
“Of course he has. It’s his M.O. to do that shit. You need to ignore him.”
“He said that you prefer trailer trash over him.” I harumph at his words. “August is better than him anyway, and I don’t even know the dude.”
“He is better,” I say. “But don’t fight over it or me. Leave Anderson to run his mouth, it doesn’t affect me.”
Beckham scratches his head. “You know then?”
“Yes, I know he knocked some skank up.”
He sits on my bed next to me. “Actually, she’s nice. Jacinta’s her name. She stopped me last week and asked about you. Asked for your number, but I didn’t give it to her.”
“Good. I want nothing to do with either of them. I don’t know her, and I don’t want to,” I tell him. “Beckham, please… stay away from Anderson and everything that goes with that man.”
He takes his baseball cap off his head and shakes his hair out. “Mom is mad… you know… that you called it off with him.”
“She can stay mad. I don’t care.”
“You do care, though. You aren’t like Rhianna,” he points out.
Beckham is right, but maybe if I tell myself enough times that I don’t care, it’ll be true.
Probably not, though.
Beckham’s phone starts ringing. He answers it, and I overhear my mother’s voice on the other end.
“Tell your sister to come for dinner, please. I need to talk to her.” Beckham looks at me helplessly, raising his eyebrows, and I take the phone from his hand.
“I have to catch up on work tonight, Mom.”
“It’s just for a bit. Come on… you have to eat. Don’t be silly, Rylee. I’ll see you at six.” She hangs up, and I pass the phone back to Beckham.
“Do you want me to tell Rhi?” he asks. Knowing full well she’ll come and be the bouncer I need between our mother and me.
“No, it’s fine. Now, what do you want to do today?” I ask with a genuine smile.
“Go-karting.”
“Go-karting it is,” I say, standing and pulling on my joggers.
“You came,” my mother states as if she knew I wouldn’t come as we walk inside.
Beckham goes straight past her and up the stairs to his bedroom.
We had a good day. I needed it, and I think he did too.
“You asked me, did you not?”
She nods and steps off to the kitchen, so I follow her. When we get there, I see Anderson’s parents sitting at the table with Anderson as well.
Oh, fuck no.
No. No. NO, I scream in my head.
Really? I glare at my mother, who’s grinning like she’s won some sort of competition as she pulls out a chair for me to sit on. I check around for my father but don’t spot him anywhere.
“I must have come at the wrong time,” I say to my mother with a forced smile. “I see you have company. I’ll come back another time.” I go to leave, but Anderson’s mother calls out to me, “Don’t be silly, Rylee. Sit, we have things to discuss.”
With a sideways glance, I glare at my mother, and if looks could kill, she would positively, absolutely, unequivocally be dead.
“Come, sit.” Mom nods for me to sit in the chair she pulled out like my reaction meant nothing to her. I’m dressed in jeans and a shirt that has Tupac printing on it.
Anderson’s mother lifts her nose in disgust, I’m assuming at what I am wearing, as I stroll past her.
When I do finally sit, my mother takes the seat next to me and taps her long, fake nails on the table. “So, I have been informed of the issue at hand.”
Issue!
Issue?
As if what’s happening is an issue.
It’s a baby.
“Yes, we’ve been out of our mind with worry,” Anderson’s mother says with a shake of her head. Everything about this woman is fake—face, eyes, tits, ass—I’m sure she keeps her plastic surgeon in Ferraris.
Anderson’s father stays silent, and when I chance a peek at Anderson, his eyes are like liquid heat. Is he angry?
“I can see no problem,” I reply with a snarky grin that should let them know just how sarcastic that comment was.
Both sets of mothers’ eyes fall to me.
“How can you say that?” my mother asks with a shake of her head. The disappointment is apparent in her eyes. “The man you are going to marry has a massive issue he needs to deal with. Now is the time for you to show your support and be by his side.”
