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Chapter Nine
Watching Westin disappearinto the airport terminal is like being sucker punched right in the stomach. My insides feel knotted and a wave of nausea hits me the moment the reality of the situation sets in.
There's no going back. I know that without a doubt. Before it was possible. Slight, but possible. There was some fraction of a chance that my life could somehow regain a sliver of its formal normalcy. But now, with Westin's taste still on my lips, with his scent still on my clothing, I know that my chances have vanished before my very eyes.
I’m a woman in love. A woman terrified of that love because it runs deeper and is more consuming than I ever dreamed it could be. The possibility that it may not work out is crippling.
But how can this work, really? California. Maine. My father. His career. My bakery. There is so much that neither of us are willing to give up, yet in order for this to work, someone is going to have to sacrifice.
I know without a doubt that leaving Maine will never be an option. I have worked too hard for too long to throw it away for a man. No matter how much that man means to me. I won't rewind. I won't go back to a place that cages me in and keeps me prisoner in my own life.
The cab ride back to the bakery goes by in a blur. My mind wanders and swirls around all the things standing in the way of me and Westin being happy, being together. Yet, even with all the negativity crawling into the forefront of my mind, I still see a tiny ray of hope.
Hope for the future. Hope that life can turn out okay in the end. Hope that, like they say in all the famous quotes and novels, love really does prevail. Because when I look to my future, there is only one face I see.Westin.
I’ve no more than gotten up the stairs to my apartment when my phone starts buzzing in my jacket pocket. Pulling it out, I immediately cringe at the name flashing across the screen.Allison Ryan. I don't even have her programmed in my phone as mom.
I consider ignoring it. Pretending like she didn't call and not letting it ruin the remainder of my day. Saying goodbye to Westin, not knowing when I will see him again, was hard enough. I really don't have time for whatever Allison has to say to me.
But like all the times before, I let out a long exhale and hit the answer button, preparing myself for the shrill voice that is sure to greet me on the other end.
“Mother.” I say, trying to hide the annoyance from my voice.
“Do not mother me, young lady,” she immediately bites at me. “Are your fingers broken?” she asks, confusing me with her question.
“What? No.” I say, rubbing my forehead and leaning against the kitchen counter.
“Did you somehow injure your tongue?” Her voice goes up an octave.
“What?” I nip at her, not feeling particularly up for whatever she’s getting at.
“Well of course not, I mean you are talking after all.” She pauses for dramatic effect, one of her specialties. “I’m simply trying to figure out what could possibly be wrong with you that you have not called home in over a month. Surely a girl with your upbringing has more class than to blow off her own parents.”
I can't contain the vicious laugh that rips from my chest. “What do you want, mother?” I say, not even attempting to buy into her shenanigans.
“What do you mean, what do I want?” She’s acting like I’ve actually confused her, but we both know that’s not the case. “You are my daughter. I want to know how you are doing.”
“I'm good, mother,” I say, trying to input at least a tiny bit of pleasantness to my voice. She is, after all, the woman who brought me into this world. No matter how horrible my childhood was, her and my father seem to have a very different opinion on the matter.
“How are you?” I ask, opening the window for exactly what she wants to talk about.Her. Always her. In Allison Ryan's world, Allison Ryan is priority.
The next twenty minutes are filled with my mother ranting on and on about whatever drama she and her neighborhood wack-jobs have created for themselves this time. When she starts in about a woman who lives a couple of houses down wearing sweatpants outside, who is not in their little clique, I have to put my hand over my mouth to muffle my laughter at the ridiculousness.
“I mean, can you believe it? Who goes out in public wearing something so hideous? This neighborhood is going downhill fast.” I can already envision my mother, peeling back the blinds and throwing death glares at this poor woman who, heaven forbid, wears something other than heels and a dress while walking around my mother's neighborhood.
“Don't you think you're being a little ridiculous?” I ask, not missing her raged intake of air at my words. “What was the woman doing while wearing such awful attire?” I ask, mockery clear in my voice.
“She was jogging. Jogging! Can you believe it? Running around with her breasts falling out of her shirt for all the married men to see. Classless. Completely tasteless,” she says, and the root of her real problem presents itself.
“You mean to tell me that this woman had the audacity to put on a pair of sweatpants and go for a jog around the neighborhood she lives in?” My voice bleeds with sarcasm.
“Don't take that tone with me, young lady. Don't think I'm not wise to your ways. Laugh at me if you will, but I’m telling you, people like that are nothing but trouble.”
“You need to find a hobby.” I plop down on my couch and pull my feet up next to me.
This sets her off on another ten minute rant about everything she does around the house and for the community. Like attending fancy fundraisers where your husband has slept with half the women in attendance does anything for her. Not that I would ever tell her that. But again, I knew better than to make the hobby suggestion. I sometimes wonder if I will ever learn.
Snuggling down deeper into the couch, my eyes flick around the room, my mind anywhere but on the conversation taking place in my ear. Looking toward my front door, I sit straight up when I realize that something is stuck to the back of it.
