Page 115 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

A girl can’t even sit at home and drink terrible cocktails in peace anymore.

I crept forward, bat still in hand, and peered through the peephole. All the tension drained from my body in an instant. My grip on the bat loosened, and I let out a long, weary sigh.

I yanked the door open, the annoyance on my face unmistakable.

My mother stood there, two oversized suitcases at her feet, fiddling with a key that clearly didn’t work in my new lock. She looked up, mild surprise crossing her face before it slowly turned into a smile.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Chapter 19

She just stood there, beaming at me with a sheepish, unblinking smile. She offered no explanation. Just that smile.

When the silence hit the one-minute mark, I gave a single, curt nod and moved to shut the door.

“Wait!” she blurted, her hand slapping against the wood to stop it. The smile returned, even brighter. “I need a place to stay.”

“Go to a hotel.” I tried to close the door again.

This time, her other hand darted out and clasped mine, her gaze locking onto mine with sudden, dramatic intensity. “Please.”

I recoiled, snatching my hand back. She seized the split-second advantage, darting past me into the apartment and dragging her two suitcases in behind her before I could react.

I turned and marched back to the kitchen, retrieving my phone from the disaster zone of my cocktail attempts. She followed, a persistent presence behind me.

“What are you doing?” She asked, her voice light, as if we were discussing the weather.

“Calling the cops to report a trespasser.” I didn’t look up, my thumb hovering over the screen. “How did you even get into the building? I specifically told Mark not to let you up.”

She straightened, pride flashing across her face. “Like I told you before, my tears work wonders.”

I shook my head, pulling up the emergency call screen. Her hand shot out and snatched the phone from my grip.

I slowly looked up from my empty hand to her face. “I am going to count to three.”

She immediately set the phone down on the marble countertop, pushing it toward me as if it were hot. “The pipes burst in my apartment. The entire place is flooding. I need somewhere to stay for a few days.”

I slid my hands into my pockets. “Again. Go to a hotel.”

“And waste money?” She scoffed. “Please. I have a daughter who’ll happily let me stay with her.”

“Tell her I said hello. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” I ignored her and returned to my cocktail disaster zone.

“Don’t be so heartless! This place is huge. Just treat me like a piece of furniture and stash me in a spare room.”

“I’d prefer actual furniture. My couch has been annoying me lately.” I selected a clean glass and poured the final, hopeful batch of my cocktail.

This one has to be good.

I took a cautious sip, and immediately regretted every life choice that led me to this moment.

The liquid hit my tongue, a vile conspiracy of flavors that made my entire body recoil. I fought the instinct to spit it across the room, every muscle rebelling against the taste.

“You want to spit that out so badly, don’t you?” she observed, leaning against the island.

I shot her a glare, forced a convulsive swallow, and then downed the entire glass in one defiant gulp. I slammed the empty glass onto the counter before attacking the mess, scrubbing every surface with sharp, impatient strokes.

“Oh, I’ll help!” she chirped, already moving toward the counter.