“Evelina.” Mother, too, keeps her voice even.
“It was a rather quick announcement, and my work prohibits me from traveling easily. But I’m working on it.”
I’ve purposefully kept my job vague. If Caroline knew I left the University of Alabama—my parents’ alma mater where“the good girls go for husbands”—for my abysmal existence as a food and travel blogger and part-time bartender—well, that guilt trip would rival summiting Mt. Everest with its cruel bite and icy environment.
To be fair, my existence wasn’t nearly this mediocre at first. I was on track for the head pâtissière at a local pâtisserie for a half second. But then, two years ago, the consistent pain in my lower abdomen I’d been battling for ten years became excruciating, and I had to leave my job and steady paycheck behind, dashing any hopes to someday open my own shop.
At first, my blog picked up, exploding after a drunken creation of mine went viral. The cupcake donut. Pinterest went crazy for it, traffic came to my blog in droves, and I was able to sell ad space and sponsorships.
But lately, the lack of sunshine in my life has leaked into my blog, and it’s consequently been floundering.
I try to hide that everything sucks from my followers, but even Maria, the Queen of Sugarcoating, says it’s becoming noticeable, and my income is dwindling as a result.
A month ago, I started working at the pub Maria’s boyfriend, Declan, owns with his twin brother, Fionn, to compensate. The job’s fine. I shouldn’t complain. Declan and Fionn understand what I’m dealing with and never suggest I’m lazy when I need a second to rest, which is a chronically ill dream. But I need to renew my visa soon, and the state of my occupational life is unsettling, at best. I’m worried my lack of serious employment and funds will complicate my renewal this time.
And Caroline and I need this ocean. I can’t move back.
“Ah, yes. Your work as a bartender.”
My foot freezes. No. She doesn’t know. How could she?
“It was rather embarrassing when I chatted with Natale Kelly yesterday to find she knew more about my daughter’s life than I did.”
Of course she does.Liam.
I gaze at the cracked wooden beams lining the slanted ceiling, running my hands through my long strawberry-blonde hair. My fingers snag in a knot, and I grumpily work it out.
Wonder Boy’s been here for four freakin’ days. Four! And he’s already wreaking havoc on my carefully crafted peace. The man’s a freakin’ methodical menace.
“I’m sorry Liam’s still such a chatterbox about things that are none of his business.” I pull at the knot; the tug forces a more substantial headache to surge at the base of my temple, but anything is less painful than this conversation, so I’ll take it.
A strangled scoff cracks through the phone speaker. “He was worried.”
“Oh, please. That man has never worried about anything but himself.”
I can practically hear the self-preening happening on the other line, her fingers sweeping through her hair in a far more graceful manner than my own, maybe a tug at a hemline or the straightening of a sleeve. Or, heaven forbid, the dreaded clutching of a pearl. My mother never raises her voice, but I’ve edged her to the line plenty of times.
“Mark my words, Evelina. Someday this ugly habit of yours to hold a grudge will permanently damage your life.”
“Was there a reason for your call besides this super pleasant tête-à-tête? For whatever reason, my head’s suddenly throbbing, and I could use a rest.”
“Come to the wedding. It’s your brother’s big day. Be the good girl we raised you to be.”
Unfortunately for us both, my mother’s idolized version of a perfect daughter—the well-mannered debutante and sorority girl—never manifested itself within me.
“I think I’ll pass.” I knee-jerk into a “no,” swallowing down the bile burning in the back of my throat. A frustrated tear pricks the edge of my eye. I want to be there for Caleb, but I don’t have the reserves to handle this—handleher—right now.
“Be thankful your nana isn’t around anymore. Gosh, it’d break her heart witnessing you miss a moment so precious to the family.”
A heaviness sits on my chest, forcing lumbering breaths. I exhale. Once. Twice.
My foot twitches.
Nana.
Lord, does this woman know how to play her cards.
But she’s right. There wouldn’t be a discussion if she was still around. I’d be there.
