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Elation soars through me. “Momma, that’s wonderful! When?”
“Mr. Stadler says it could be as early as next week. Probably sooner.”
“I want to be there.”
I hear her soft inhale. “Honey, I don’t think that’s a good idea—”
“I want to be with you, Momma. I need to be.”
Even as I say it, I know what her answer will be. I can sense it coming in her tender sigh on the other end of the line.
“Avery, I don’t want you to come.” Her denial is heavy in her prolonged silence, and I know her heart is breaking as much as mine. “I don’t want you here for any of this. You know how I feel about that.”
I say nothing, all of my arguments dying on the tip of my tongue. From day one, she’s insisted on fighting this battle alone. As a sixteen year old girl, I was too terrified and weak to stand by her. Now, I’m a twenty-five year old woman who can’t do a damn thing to save her.
“Avery, honey. Tell me you understand.”
I shake my head mutely, wishing things were different.
Missing her like the scared, uncertain girl I was back then.
“Yes, Momma,” I finally agree. “I understand.”
Chapter 16
Hello, beautiful.
The text message hits my phone as I disembark from a Sunday morning subway at the Flushing station in Queens. I’m heading out today for the 10:30 A.M. baptism of Tasha’s baby girl, followed by a small gathering at their house.
I was in a cheerful, upbeat mood when I left the apartment an hour ago—happy to be outside on the gloriously warm, early May morning and to have an excuse to wear something other than bartending clothes or the oversized T-shirts and sweatpants I tend to live in when I’m off work.
As I begin walking the couple of blocks to the church in my pale gray dress and heels, I glance down at Nick’s unexpected message and feel my joy leech away. In its place is a spike of disbelief and a slow-simmering annoyance.
Is he for real?
Does he actually think I’ve been sitting around all this time, waiting for him to get in touch? Or is he trying to line up his stateside conquests now that his two weeks in London have passed?
The arrogant prick.
I roll my eyes and toss the phone back in my handbag, determined to ignore him.
The chime of another incoming text sounds only a minute or two later.
Don’t look. Don’t even think of looking, I command myself. And yet in spite of my own dignity and better judgment, I retrieve the phone again and swipe the screen lock open.
You there? Got you on my mind in a bad way.
“Oh, please.” I stop in my tracks on the sidewalk and glare at my phone. Because I’m thoroughly pissed off and can’t help myself, I tap out a scathing reply.
Why? Have you already run through all the available women in London?
I hit SEND and resume my walk, hoping my digital fury will be enough to shut him down and end this farce right here and now.
My phone starts ringing immediately.
Dammit.
I know I should just let it go to voicemail. I should pretend Dominic Baine no longer exists and carry on with my life, such as it is.
