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All I ever desired was to have a real mom instead of a selfish, addicted one. But I got what I got, and nothing will change my family dynamics.
She asserts, "Blakely, you owe it to me to see me."
"I owe you nothing," I say, then close my eyes, leaning against the headrest.
Don't let her guilt you.
She's a mess. I should help her get better.
There's no helping her. Don't get sucked in again.
"Please, baby!" she begs.
"I can't," I murmur.
Her voice softens, and more desperation fills it, igniting another wave of guilt. "Please, Blakely, I need to talk to you. There's so much going on. I'm going to completely lose it."
The thought of my mom losing it more than when I saw how skinny she was and how she already looked like she was on death's door only scares me further.
She's my mom, no matter what.
I cave. "Fine. We can meet for coffee. But, Mom, you have to be sober. If you're not sober, I'm leaving."
"I'm always—"
"Don't lie to me, Mom. I don't want to hear your lies about not drinking or taking more of your pills," I warn.
Silence fills the line. The car stops. I glance out the window at the big jet on the runway. My heart beats way too fast, and I put my hand over it, trying to stop the pain shooting through it. I finally tell my mother, "I have to go."
"Wait!" she cries out.
I freeze, taking deep breaths.
"Let's meet tonight," she suggests. "We can go to dinner at that place you love. You know, the one with the balloon animals."
I squeeze my eyes again. A mother should know that her grown daughter no longer cares about balloon animals. But it stings worse that she doesn't know her daughter's about to sing at a major concert. Then again, my parents don't know anything about my career. Even though my single just hit number one, and they should, they're clueless. And my mother is obviously still in her own world.
She coos, "Please, sweetie."
I admit, "I can't tonight, Mom."
"Then when?" she questions.
I go through my calendar in my head, then offer, "Saturday morning. We can meet for coffee. I'll text you later the time and place."
"But—"
"That's what I can do, Mom. Take it or leave it," I threaten.
She sniffles and then agrees. "Okay, great. Thank you."
"I mean it, Mom. I'm leaving if you aren't sober when you show up." I hang up the phone, fighting my tears before she can start arguing with me again, which my mother always does. She always claims she's sober, even when she can barely walk. And I hope she'll figure out how to get clean for a few hours to meet me, but I'm not getting my hopes up.
It takes a while to feel calm, and I finally program my mom's name into the phone. Then I straighten my shoulders and knock on the window. It's another security feature that Riggs created for me. The driver will never open the door unless I knock on it, which gives them permission. I thought Riggs was being silly at first, but now I'm grateful for it.
The door opens, and my pulse skyrockets. The wind gusts, and the familiar woody spice laced with orange peels scent flows into the SUV. Riggs's big frame looms in the door's opening, and he looks as handsome as ever. His disheveled blond surfer hair and the smile on his lips make my blood heat.
He's not supposed to be here.
