Page 70 of Dream On, Liar

I changed into my pyjamas, climbed into bed and picked up the book I’d been carrying around for the better part of a week. I’d bought it after seeing it on Tales & Latte’s post, and Ariyanka’s review had intrigued me enough that when I’d spotted it at the airport, I’d grabbed it easily.

I’d managed three pages on the flight here before we were served our meals, after which point I’d gotten addicted to the docu-series they had on Formula One. If Samyra was adamant about me joining her for the Monaco Grand Prix, including the oh-so-fancy sponsor ball she was planning—with people who actually knew the sport, there was no chance in hell I was going to make the same mistake and show up clueless. I’d already made a fool of myself once by not knowing enough about the sport I was about to get involved in.

Opening the page I’d bookmarked with my boarding pass, I made it past a single page before I eyed my phone.

Sat on the bedside table it was suddenly far more interesting than the book in my hands. Although I was pretty sure I hadn’t even registered a single thing I had read so far.

I stared at it as curiosity climbed up me.

No.

I looked back at my book.

Absolutely not.

I tried to reason with myself, but the truth was—when I got curious about something, the only thing that scratched the itch was the answer to my questions.

My hand reached for my phone, and before I knew it I was opening up social media and typing my mother’s name in the search bar.

My stomach twisted before the profile had even loaded.

I hadn't searched for her in months, maybe longer but it’d had still been the first one to show up.

Holding my breath, I clicked on it and surprised coursed through me instantly.

There were hundreds of photographs. My mother had always been one to flaunt what she’d got, but as I scrolled through them, I realised there had been something different. Something…warmer.

Ayla.

There were pictures of her everywhere.

Ayla at the beach.

Ayla on holiday.

Ayla covered in cake.

Ayla asleep against Mum's chest.

Ayla laughing while Mum held her hand.

I stared at that one photograph for longer than I meant to.

She looked happy.

Mum looked happy.

They looked like a mother and daughter who had never had to question what they were to each other.

Ayla was almost five.

I did the maths automatically.

Five.

And I couldn't remember Mum doing any of that with me.

Not like this. Not with that kind of ease.