“Sugar, don’t you think if I wanted to milk my rich baby daddy I’d have done it before now?”
“He wasn’t rich when you left,” I remind her.
“No, but then he married into the Steel empire. And you were adopted into it. I knew you all had billions to your name. And honestly, I thought about it once or twice, but even a worn-out old showgirl has her pride.”
Another pause. Because I have no clue what to say to her.
It would be a pittance to me to give her enough to live out the rest of her years in luxury. Why doesn’t she just ask? I’d do it in a minute. Not because I owe her anything. But because she gave birth to me. Because I exist, thanks to her.
Francine sighs. “I gotta go, sugar. Pool night. The girls don’t wait for phone calls that never should have been made.”
“Francine. Er, Frankie?—”
“Don’t call again.”
“Uh…you called me this time.”
“Fine. I won’t call again.”
“Wait!”
The line clicks.
Thirty-Nine
Tabitha
By the time I pull into the parking lot outside my building, the sun’s already gone, with only a bit of pink dusting the mountains. The air is cooler than I expect for August, and I stand there for a second with my hand on the car door, breathing in the air that doesn’t smell like cedar or smoke or rain. Just exhaust, a touch of patchouli—it’s Boulder, after all—and maybe someone grilling a burger two buildings over.
It shouldn’t hurt to come home, but it does.
I carry my bag upstairs and unlock the apartment. I drop my keys in the bowl by the door and carry the suitcase into my bedroom.
I wander into the kitchen and pull open the fridge. There’s a half-empty jar of marinara, a bruised apple, and an unopened bottle of Chardonnay I bought last week. Why? I don’t know. I stare at it and shut the door.
“Pizza,” I mutter. “It’s a pizza kind of night.”
I order it from my food app and then catch my reflection in the microwave door. My hair is frizzy from the drive, my eyes shadowed. I look like someone who’s been kissed hard and hasn’t stopped thinking about it.
I look like someone who didn’t want to leave.
“Screw it.” I pull out the bottle of Chardonnay when my phone buzzes with a call, not a text.
Lance.
I hesitate. He usually texts, but I’ve kept putting him off. I should answer. I shouldn’t. My thumb betrays me.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice light.
“Hey, you,” he says. “How was your weekend?”
“It was good,” I say. No lie there. Parts of it were magical.
But Henry hasn’t called yet. To explain Francine. I honestly don’t think it’s anything huge, but he could have told me the truth instead of taking the call when he knew I had to get on the road.
“Listen,” he says, “I was thinking…if you’re not buried under textbooks yet, maybe we could grab a quick bite. There’s a new Vietnamese place off Pearl Street I want to try.”
“I don’t know,” I say, forcing a smile he can’t see. “The seminar’s intense, and I’ve got case notes to finish before tomorrow.”
