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This is a business, not a Las Vegas vacation.
My phone buzzes on the desk as I sit contemplating whether I want to drink tonight or dwell on my thoughts sober. I’m tempted to throw back shots, but that’s probably how Angus developed such a bad relationship with alcohol.
I pick up the phone, answering it just so that I have something else to do than to sit with my thoughts. I already know it’s my mom, but even she’s better than being alone right now.
“Oakley, finally! I thought something had happened to you! You weren’t answering any of my messages or calls, and I was this close to calling in a missing person.”
“A little dramatic,” I reply.
She scoffs. “I’m your mother. I reserve the right to be dramatic when my daughter disappears across the country and doesn’t pick up the phone.”
“I told you I’m here for a job interview,” I reply, tracing my finger anxiously across the desk.
“Oakley, it’s been almost two weeks now. What’s going on? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
Oh, if only she knew the type of trouble I’m in.
“No, no, don’t worry about me, please. It’s just a really good job, and they require a couple of interviews before they can hire you. I made it through the first one, and I have my second one on Saturday,” I reply, trying to sound cheerful as my lies unravel.
“Saturday? Most people don’t work on Saturday, sweetie,” she replies, sounding more doubtful than ever.
“Um, yeah, that’s why it’s a good day for an interview, right?” I say, following up with a nervous chuckle.
“Oakley, tell me what’s going on,” she says flatly. “You can be honest with me. I’m not going to get mad at you if you’ve run off with some man you met on the internet. Well, maybe I would be a little angry, but that’s only because I care.”
I squeeze the bridge of my nose. “Jesus, mom, no. Where would you even get an idea like that?”
“I don’t know, but you’re acting very strange. Are you sure everything is okay?”
“Totally fine,” I reply, failing to hide the sarcasm that’s crept into my voice. “Never felt fucking better.”
“Oakley!”
I groan. “Mom, seriously. I’m sorry I didn’t call before, but I was busy and stressed, and this whole thing is a lot for me. I’ll try to text you more often.”
There’s a long pause before she replies. “I’m not buying it. I’m just not buying it. I don’t believe that they flew you all the way out to Nevada for a two-week-long series of job interviews. They’re not hiring you as their new CEO. You’re just a psychologist.”
Her demeaning tone is too much to handle after being belittled by Savva outside my own bar, and all the lies that I built up into a neat tower come toppling down when the damn bursts and my anger is released.
“You have no fucking clue what you’re talking about, mom. Excuse my language, but you’re always acting like my credentials aren’t the least bit useful or important. I’ll tell you what, though, it doesn’t even matter. No, it doesn’t matter in the least. You know why? Because I’m not even interviewing for a job as a psychologist. Dad left me his bar when he died, and I’ve decided to run it,” I gush, the truth giving me more power than I thought words ever could. I feel better already.
“You what?!” my mom screams through the phone, and I hang up immediately.
I don’t want to talk anymore. She can sort out what I said in her own time. I don’t need to tolerate someone who is going to scream at me like I’m still a child.
My phone rings again, and I pick it up. “I don’t want to fucking talk to you!” I yell.
“Oakley, I swear to god, if you don’t come back home right this instant…”
“Or what? What will you do? Don’t you realize that I’m an adult. Why would I come back home to someone who has been feeding me lies since I learned how to walk? Tell me that, and maybe I won’t hang up on you again,” I say, feeling the full swell of righteous anger embolden me to finally confront her about Angus.
“What are you talking about?” she asks, but her voice is small and weak. She knows she can’t continue to hide the truth.
“About dad,” I say, my words short and sharp. “You told me he was an abusive alcoholic who murdered someone and wanted nothing to do with me.”
“That’s exactly true.”
“It’s not. Or, at least, it’s not the full truth, and you know that,” I reply. “I found a picture of me in his office, the same one you have on the fridge. Now, tell me he didn’t care about me again. I dare you.”
