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“You didn’t get her to back off. I did.” I’ve turned ugly and mean. I don’t want to be in my own skin right now. I’d kill for a bottle of bourbon.
“Give me back my phone.”
I toss it at her, but it lands on the floor, shattering. I walk out to the sound of the woman who birthed me throwing a tantrum that shows her level of ridiculousness. “You owe me a phone,” she screams. “You owe me a phone.”
I lift my hand over my head and flip her the bird, never looking back.
The only question in my mind as I storm off is whether I’m heading to my sober coach’s house or the bar.
36
ROWAN
I haven’t hearda thing from Mason since he met with his mother the day before yesterday, which is concerning. I know how the whole situation with her stresses him out, and I can’t imagine what manipulative crap she may have pulled on him when they met up.
Normally he is such a smart guy. He can defend himself from anything that’s coming at him—but when it comes to his mother, just talking about her sends him spiraling down into a dark, dark place.
I’m sure that she only wanted to meet him yesterday for selfish motives. A woman doesn’t willingly abandon her child the way she did and then show up again unless she wants something.
We have a plan, though. If she tries to blackmail him or anything like that, we are all prepared with a statement for the media. So why hasn’t he messaged me and let me know what is going on with her?
I texted him three times to see what was up, which is not like me. I don’t want to come across as the stalker who holds up handwritten signs at Rovers games, but I’m genuinely worried, teetering between annoyance and concern.
My third text, sent yesterday, just said,Let me know you’re either not dead or if you are dead you’re going to haunt Amoeba, and I didn’t even get a laughing emoji in reply. Rude.
It’s messing with my head more than it should. Paolo picks up on it when he pops into my office to steal one of my Rovers chocolates.
“Take the whole box,” I grumble at him, pushing the box away from me.
He reaches in and grabs one. “No. I need to maintain my beautiful figure so I can still seduce my wife and look amazing in my salsa costumes.”
“Stop being so happy,” I order him. “Tell me something terrible about your wife.”
“She has bad taste in husbands, but I am the fortunate beneficiary of her terrible taste.”
“Whatever.” I scowl. “Love is a fictional construct.”
“Are you feeling all right?” He nibbles a corner of the chocolate square. It drives me crazy when people do that. Why wouldn’t you just shove the whole thing in your mouth and enjoy? Is he just fixated on showing off how much self-control he has?
I heave a sigh and massage my temples with my thumbs. The way he eats chocolates is not the problem. It’s me. I’m being crabby and critical because I’m worried about Mason, and I don’t feel like I can just pick up the phone and call him about anything that’s not work-related.
“Ignore me,” I tell him.
“I generally do.”
I flip him off.
“Once more, with feeling,” he says, as he takes another tiny little bite.
“Arggh,” I yell.
“Man troubles?” he guesses. “Want to talk about it?”
Cecelia chooses that moment to walk in the door.
“I need to speak to you,” she says to me, then shoots a look at Paolo. “Also, this room smells like calories.” She narrows her eyes at the chocolate in his hand.
He quickly stuffs the whole thing in his mouth—ha.—and hurries out of the room.
