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“And why not?” Mom asks angrily. “Is this because your father—”
“No, it’s not because of Dad!” I shout, my hand tightening on the phone. For a moment I worry I might even break it. “This has nothing to do with you, or Dad, or Bryan, and has everything to do with the fact I no longer want to be in the middle of whatever squabble you and Dad have going on. I don’t care about the Hamptons. I don’t care about your new boyfriend Bryan. Quite frankly, I don’t want to meet your new boyfriend, or play nice with him, or go to fancy dinners with him. All I want is for you and Dad to treat me like your child rather than your little messenger.”
On that note, I hang up and turn my phone off. Tears spring in my eyes but I wipe them away and ignore them. I have better things to do than cry over my parents. I need to know if Lucas is okay. I need to know everything will work out with him and his family.
“Alex,” I start while pushing my hair away from my face. “Do you have Lucas’s Mom’s number?”
Chapter 22
LUCAS
Ileanagainstthebar, staring into my drink. The bar is busy. People giggle behind me as they play billiards. The sun has already set. It’s pretty late, and honestly, I don’t quite know where I am. I pretty much walked into the first place I came upon. It was pretty stupid of me to leave Rachel and the bros the way I did. We all came in the same car. I should have gone home with them before storming off like an idiot. Maybe part of me thought they would pass me on the road, but then again, I have never been the best with directions. I could have turned down the wrong road, which means they would never have passed me.
Just my luck, but this place isn’t so bad. I’m already on my third shot of whiskey. I hate the stuff, but I know Dad likes it. I remember when I was a kid watching him drink the stuff, wishing I could grow up faster so I could join him. We never did get to drink whiskey together. Somehow, we were always fighting or he was always busy. Life just got in the way.
Thinking of Dad reminds me of what I must write. I can understand where Rachel and the bros are coming from, but I wish they would take a moment to see it from my point of view. I’m not the bad guy here. I’m coming from a good place. It’s not like I want to do it, but it’s the only way I can get my name out there. It’s the only way I can become a professional writer. Once I get published, colleagues and other publishing houses will take me seriously. This is a good thing. Maybe.
There’s movement on my right side and I feel someone sitting down right next to me. The bar is busy, but there’s a few other stools down to my left, even a small table in the corner. It’s annoying that they chose to sit right next to me, even more annoying that I can feel their elbow brushing up against mine. Do they not understand the concept of personal space?
“Excuse me,” the person calls—a woman. “Do you have Chardonnay? Or a Pinot Grigio?”
My eyes widen. I recognize her voice. I’ve known it since I was a little boy. I can recall her yelling at me when I was a little boy when I came in with mud-stained shoes. I remember her scolding me when I argued with Dad.
I turn and there she is, my mother, in the flesh, looking pristine in her white suit and her perfectly straightened hair. She looks into a small mirror, fixing her lipstick while the barman sets a glass of white wine in front of her.
“Mom?” I ask, wondering if the shots have finally muddled my head. “Is that you?”
She snaps the compact closed and raises an eyebrow at me. “Yes, it’s me. Who else could I be?”
I lean back, looking her up and down while she takes a sip from her win. She grimaces and wrinkles her nose and that’s when I know it has to be her. Any dive bar wine would make her do that. She hates subpar wine.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper harshly, looking around in search for Dad leering in the shadows, but he’s nowhere to be found.
“Rachel called me,” Mom says while setting down her glass and sliding it as far away from her as possible without knocking it over off the bar. “She said something was wrong. That you haven’t been doing so well.”
Rachel called Mom? Rachel, of all people, who hated my mother not that long ago, called? Am I in the Twilight Zone? Have I somehow died and awoken in one of the seven layers of Hell? “How-How did you find me?” I ask.
Mom shrugs. “You and your father aren’t all that different. I knew you would go to the closest bar, and seeing how this is the only one in the vicinity Rachel spoke of, I assumed you would be here.”
“Did you fly in?” I ask, my voice shrill.
My eyes widen when Mom nods. “Took the private jet.”
“Why?”
Mom groans and rolls her eyes. “I was worried. It’s not common that your girlfriend calls me, telling me she’s worried about you. I thought it was serious.” She raises an eyebrow at me. “Is it?”
I bite my tongue and turn away from her, picking up my glass of whiskey to give me something to do. “No,” I mumble before taking a sip, grimacing as I feel the burn trickle down my throat.
“Lucas,” Mom says warningly. “What’s going on?”
I say and shake my head. “You won’t understand.” Which is the truth. She most definitely won’t. At least, if I do decide to tell her, we’re in public, so she can’t kill me or strangle me.
“Try me,” Mom says, her lips quirking into a devilish smile.
Oh, you won’t be smiling after I tell you, I think, the thought of it making me want to run into the bathroom and find a window to jump out of. Too bad, I am way too big for that. And most likely the window will be tiny.
“You promise to be calm?” I ask, watching her head bob up and down like a bobblehead doll.
