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“I promise.”
“Pinky promise?” I ask while holding out my pinky.
Mom rolls her eyes. “Sure.” She wraps her pinky around mine and we shake. “Now, what is this all about?”
I inhale deeply, trying desperately to calm my slamming heart. All of it is in vain and I know once I get out the words, I won’t be able to take them back. “I’m writing a book,” I begin, choosing my words precisely, “and an agent has already agreed to publish it. Contracts have been signed. A check has been sent. I haven’t cashed it in, yet.”
“Okay,” Mom says with a shrug. “That doesn’t seem so bad.”
“Well, here’s the catch,” I say, my voice lowering. “It’s about our family.”
Mom purses her lips and I can see the dots haven’t connected. “Okay,” she says slowly.
I clear my throat and angle myself closer to her, which might be a mistake. She could grab my collar and shake me, or throw that glass of wine in my face. “It’s about… certain scandals that have happened in our family.”
Mom’s eyes widen and she leans away from me. Her hands grip the bar and my gaze remains on the glass of wine, waiting for her to do the inevitable—scream and shout at me, tell me I’m a terrible son, that I deserve to rot.
Instead, I watch Mom take several very deep breaths in. She looks like she’s about to have a panic attack. I put a hand on her, but she bats it away. “I’m fine,” she says hoarsely. “Give me a minute.”
I watch her do this for what seems like hours, yet the clock behind the bar reads it’s only been a couple minutes. When she finally finishes, she turns to me, her expression hard, yet there’s no hate gleaming back at me—only worry.
“Sorry,” she begins, “my therapist has been teaching me how to deal with hard situations better. She recommends breathing exercises.”
“I…see.” I lace my fingers together, waiting for her to say anything in response to what I have just told her. Instead, Mom continues to stare at me, her eyes glimmering in the faint light.
“I understand,” she finally says while placing a hand on my shoulder.
“Huh?” Have my ears betrayed me? Did she just say she understands? Like… what does she understand? That I’m an asshole for betraying the family? She understands she wants to disown me? What does she mean by ‘I understand’?
“I understand why you would sign the contract,” Mom says matter-of-factly with a slight shrug. “It’s a lot of money. You have that terrible job in that quaint cafe and it’s been difficult trying to get published.”
I must have died and gone to Heaven. How are we having this conversation right now? The Mom I know would be yelling at me, crying, telling me I’m a terrible son. Unless, she plans on leaving me after this and tell Dad, who would then sick his lawyers on me. I could get sued. Massively. Why didn’t I think of this before?
“I also understand that I have failed you as a mother,” Mom continues, her hand sliding away from me. She grips her hands together in her lap and I can see she’s nervous. I have no idea why. I’m the one who messed up.
“Mom—”
She holds up a hand and whatever I’m about to say gets caught in my throat. “Just know I understand, Lucas. You don’t need to worry about me. However, I am worried about you.”
What is going on right now? I am seriously so confused.
“Writing this story won’t make everything better. People may not take you seriously in the future. They might lump you with all the other gossip writers. Is that what you want?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. It’s the truth. I hadn’t. I saw the contract and the money and got excited. I assumed my parents would disown me. I thought Rachel and the bros would be upset. It hadn’t even crossed my mind what the world would think of me.
“So, you need to make a decision.” Mom grabs her glass of wine and downs the entire thing in one gulp, grimacing the entire time. “Do you want to be known as a gossip writer, or an author who writes literature? Whatever choice you make, know that I believe in you and will support you.”
“But, what about Dad?”
Mom chuckles and shakes her head, looking like a stranger rather than the mother I’ve known since I was a boy. “Leave your father to me.”
I can’t believe my ears. I can’t believe any of this. Without thinking, I reach for her, wrapping my arms around her small frame. I pull her close to me and hug my mother tight. I can’t remember the last time we did anything like this. Her arms wrap around me and she pats my back.
“Thank you, Mom,” I rasp, feeling the tears burning my eyes.
She pulls away from me and her smile makes me feel like everything will be better from now on, even if it’s not. “It will be fine,” she says with a curt nod. “You don’t have to worry about anything.”
I watch her pull out her Louis Vuitton wallet and lay down a wad of cash for the barman and soon I’m guided outside towards a black car waiting in the parking lot. A driver steps out, holding the door open for us, and we ride back to what I can only assume is my apartment in silence. I still don’t know what I should do, but it’s good to have Mom on my side at the very least. If I had to choose, I would prefer not writing the story, but I already signed the contract. How can I get out of it? It’s not like I have the money to spend on lawyers.
